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.

He walks among the troops, his children, looking for familiar faces among the scores of strangers. There are people here from all across the continent, come to test their faith in this special arena. He loves them. He loves them as one loves children. He loves them as the birds must love, when they push their babies out of the nest to force their wings to open. It is a special and terrible love, and he thanks God for letting him taste it.

Over the mountains, beyond vision but not beyond march, lies the Forest. Heart of evil by man's own decree, it is a symbol more powerful than any the Church could devise. Men are drawn to it, obsessed by it, and

many will die fighting it in the battle yet to come. But it will not be as it was before, five hundred years ago in the age of their defeat. This time they will use the tools that Erna has provided, and focus their energies on one single point within that corrupted realm. Night's keep-Hell's watch-the Hunter's lair. Destroy it and the Forest will shake. Destroy its owner and the Forest will crumble, its power soured to chaos, its very earth made malleable by that action.

Five hundred years ago the Church tried to conquer a universe, and reaped its own devastation. This time they make war against a symbol, and all the power of God will back them. He feels the thrill of that utter certainty as he looks out over his troops, as his eyes fix upon the one special weapon which will make their invasion possible-

He awoke. His heart was beating loudly, and he lay still while it slowly quieted. His fists were clenched by his sides; he forced them to open. Was this the third time he'd had that dream, or the fourth? It clearly wasn't a clairvoyancy, as so many other dreams were, but the scent of prophecy clung to it nonetheless. Should he take it seriously or dismiss it, as he had done before? Surely persistence should translate to something.

With a groan he got out of his bed and drew on a robe that lay waiting for him. The heavy silk overlapped tightly about a body that was losing weight from its battle with stress, and tonight it seemed that even his slippers were loose. He was wasting away along with his people, he thought. Some day he would be gone entirely, and only a shadow would remain to guide them.

Leaving his bedroom, he walked down the narrow corridor that led to his private chapel. The servant who was posted outside it against his midnight need jumped to his feet as he came by, startled into sudden waking by his footsteps on the hardwood floor, but he waved him back to his slumber. His was a need that could only be met in solitude.

At the end of the corridor was the door to the

chapel. He opened it and stepped inside, shutting the door behind him. There were candles burning beside the altar-it was the servant's job to keep them alight at night-but their illumination was minimal, and most of the chamber was shrouded in shadow. He came to the altar and knelt before it, and all the fear and the doubt which he had been cloistering within his heart came pouring out, an undertide to prayer.

Most holy God, whose Eye is upon us always, whose Word is our salvation. Grant me the grace of Your Insight, that I may serve Your Will more perfectly.

It wasn't the first night he'd come here since the dreams started, and if he stayed until dawn to pray, it wouldn't be the first time that happened either. And now this dream was back, and he was no less tormented by it than he had been the last time, or the time before. Because it promised him an answer to his problems, and at the same time posed an even greater question. If it was a true prophecy-if this battle was the course that God intended for him-what would the cost of it be? Not to him, or to the men who fought beside him, but to the generations that would come after?

How tempting it is to live in that dream, where all my people's hatred and destructive energy can be redirected against a more suitable enemy. How tempting, to imagine that the catharsis of battle can wipe our souls clean of this violence. But that's not how the human mind works. If we indulge our darker instincts, if we tell ourselves that yes, they are acceptable if properly channeled-even admirable, under the right circumstances-what do we do when this battle is over? How do we make these soldiers into plain men and women again, and cleanse them of their taste for blood so that they might retire to normal lives? How do we teach them to savor the peace their efforts have won them, rather than seek a new forum for violence?

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 worshiping 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 die 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, more reasonable part of him knew that it would be suicide to even attempt it. And it didn't really matter, did it? The gold on the altar was simple metal, no more. The symbols themselves could be melted down to slag without injuring his faith. If the Prophet had taught them nothing else, it was that God didn't reside in such things.

The Prophet. A cold thrill shivered through his flesh as he realized just what it was that stood before him. Not the Prophet any longer, but a damned and degenerate creature who wore the Prophet's identity like a ragged bit of cast-off clothing. Was this the chill that Vryce had felt, when he first stood in his presence? Did he grow numb to it after a time, or simply learn to ignore its warning?

When the man reached the altar he reached out to its

central figure, a double circle sculpted in gold. He traced the interlocked shapes with a death-pale finger, and his nostrils flared as if taking in the scent of this place. Was he testing the Patriarch, seeing if he would respond? Despite his powerful instinct to protect the altar, the Patriarch forced himself to hold back. God alone knew what this creature would do if he moved against him.

After a moment the Hunter turned to face the Holy Father once more. His eyes were no longer black but a pale, glistening gray. There was a coldness in them that reminded the Holy Father of glacial ice, and of death. They were the eyes of the damned, that had gazed upon the glories of the One God and then turned away forever. Gazing at them, the Patriarch couldn't help but shudder.

"Believe as you will," the visitor said. "It's taken me years to come to this point; why should you accept it in a single night? We have the same enemy, therefore we fight the same war. Let that be enough."

Calesta. He felt the name take shape within his brain, etched in ice. For one brief moment he envisioned what power the Church could wield, with this man's knowledge and skill harnessed to its purpose- and then that image shattered like glass, as the real threat of the situation hit home. This is how Vryce started, he thought, chilled. And this is how the Prophet fell.

"It isn't enough," he said quietly. The strength in his own voice surprised him. "Not for that kind of alliance."

For a moment the Hunter said nothing. It was impossible to read his expression, or otherwise guess at the tenor of his emotions. The death-pale face was a mask, that permitted no insight.

"I've come to make you an offer," he said at last. "For the sake of our common cause. Nothing more."

He shook his head slowly. "I want nothing of yours."

"Even if my gift would enable your Church to survive?"

"It would be at the cost of my soul, and the souls of all my faithful. What kind of triumph is that?"

The pale eyes narrowed, and he sensed a cold anger rising in the man. He neither moved back nor looked away, but met the unspoken assault with a shield of utter calm. His faith would preserve him. Even if this man killed him now, his God would protect his soul.

At last his visitor said, in a razor-edged voice, "You already have what you need to safeguard your Church. What you lack is an understanding of how to use it. I came to bring you that, no more."

"And I reject that offer," he said coolly. Watching a flicker of anger spark in those pale, dead eyes. "I'm not Damien Vryce, or any of the other souls you've corrupted over the years. Some of those must have started out just this way, yes? Wanting your power enough to compromise their faith. Trusting you, long enough to forget who and what they were." Strength was coming into his voice now, and the full oratory power of a Patriarch. "I won't make Vryce's mistake," he said firmly. "I won't take that first step. We'll wage our battles alone, and win them or lose them according to God's

will."

He shook his head. "You don't understand what losing means in this case. The threat to all you stand for-"

"I understand that what stands before me now is a man who's lived apart from the Church for nearly ten centuries. Should I favor his interpretation of the Law over my own? Should I abandon all my learning, and the centuries of struggle that came before me, for an alliance that would make mockery of my faith? I think

not."

"Then you'll go down," he said sharply, "and the Church will go down with you."

"If that's God's will, then so be it. At least our souls will be clean."

"Who knows your God's will better than I? As your

Prophet-"

"The Prophet is dead!" the Patriarch snapped. "He died the day that he murdered his wife and children,

and no man's will can resurrect him. Something else took his place that night, that wears his body and uses his voice, but that thing isn't a man, and it certainly isn't an ally of the Church. However well it pretends to be."

An icy fire burned in the depths of those pale eyes, reflections of a rage so venemous that if Tarrant should let it loose, even for a moment, the Patriarch knew it would consume him utterly. It was hard not to tremble in the face of such a thing, but he sensed that fear- any kind of fear-would allow this creature to take possession of his soul. That he must never permit.

"I could have killed your guard on the way in," Tarrant told him. "In another time and place I would surely have done so, and gained strength from his death. I didn't. Let that be a sign of my sincerity. A token-if you will-of my true intentions."

"The day I judge a man by such standards," he retorted, "is the day I turn in my robes."

"We're fighting the same war!" There was anger in his voice now, frigid and dangerous. "Can't you see that? How do I get through to you?"

"You know the way," he said quietly. Inside his heart was pounding wildly, but he managed to keep his voice calm. In the face of the Hunter's rage there was power in tranquility. "You've known the way for nine centuries now."

The Hunter's eyes narrowed, and he took a step backward. He reached one hand into a pocket as though seeking some kind of weapon, and the Patriarch stiffened. But the object he drew forth was no weapon, at least not of any kind the Patriarch had ever seen. It was a large crystal, finely faceted, of a deep blue color so resonant that it seemed to give off light of its own. Such a color couldn't exist naturally in this chamber, the Patriarch realized, not with the golden light of the candleflames compromising its hue. Its very clarity sang of sorcery.

The Hunter turned the object so that the Patriarch might see all sides of it; there was no denying the sense of power that resonated from its polished planes.

"Do you know what a ward is?" he asked. Watching him, watching the stone, the Patriarch did not reply. "It's a Working designed to be independent of its maker, so that the two are no longer connected. It has a trigger-in this case your own will-and the ability to tap the currents for power, in order to fuel itself. In short," he said, indicating the object in his hand, "this is no longer connected to me, or to any other living creature. It will fulfill its one purpose and then expire. Do you understand that?"

"I want nothing of yours," he said quietly. "Then you're a fool!" he snapped. "And you'll drag your Church down with you!" He held up the deep blue ward to catch the light; cobalt shimmers ran across its facets like ripples on a dark lake. "All I offer you is knowledge. The chance to see your own arsenal for what it is, without delusion masking it. That knowledge could save your people!" His pale eyes fixed on the Patriarch again, with fierce intensity. "It will also, most probably, destroy you." He held the crystal aloft as if in illustration, then slowly laid it down upon the altar cloth. "Are you willing to make such a sacrifice for your Church? I wonder."

"Don't pretend to test me," the Patriarch warned. "You of all people have lost that right."

The Hunter tensed, and for a minute the Patriarch thought that he had finally pushed him too far, that he would give in to his rage and strike out at him. He braced himself, praying for courage, trying to master his fear so that this damned creature couldn't benefit from it. But a minute passed, and then two, and then he sensed that the crisis was over. In a voice that was as chill as death itself, the Hunter said, "Take it up if you want to use it. Fold it in your hand, and it'll do the rest." He bowed, stiffly and formally. "It's your choice."

He turned then, and left the chamber quickly. Too quickly for the Patriarch to voice a protest. Far too quickly for him to do what he wanted, which was to take up the crystalline ward and force it upon him, to make him take it back to whatever hellish domain

had forged it. Silk faded into shadow and without any sound to mark his passage, be it footstep or a whisper of flesh-upon-flesh or the soft creak of a door hinge, Gerald Tarrant was gone.

The deep blue crystal lay where he had left it, between two candles on the altar. There it shimmered with a life of its own, sparkling with reflected flames. What was this thing that the Hunter had left? Knowledge? Perhaps. Sorcery? Without question. A chance for victory? Maybe. Temptation.

Slowly he lowered himself to his knees before the altar. Oh, my God, he prayed, fill me with Your strength. Guide me with Your certainty. Keep my eyes fixed on Your path, so that I may never waver.

Blue facets, glinting in the candlelight. Power, in carefully measured dose. Was this thing salvation? Destruction? Or both? The world isn 't made up of black and white, but shades of gray. Who had said that once? Vryce? He shivered as the words struck home. Too easy an answer, he told himself. Too tempting a refuge. Indecision is cowardice. Uncertainty is weakness. And we can afford neither, in the face of this enemy. Trembling, he prayed.