Black Sun Rising (5 page)

Image of a Patriarch: stark white hair above aquiline features, eyes a cold, piercing blue. Thin lips drawn back in a hard line, a fleeting glimpse of flawless teeth within. Pale brown skin dried and thickened by age. Lines of character deeply incised: tense, severe, disapproving. The body, like the face, toughened rather than weakened by seventy winters of life. Broad, strong shoulders, from which cascaded a waterfall of ivory silk, voluminous enough to obscure the body’s outline. Power—in every feature, even in his stance. Authority.

And something else, to be read in his face, his eyes, his very posture—and his voice, a rich baritone that any chorister would pray to possess.
Anger. Resentment. Distaste.

Exactly what Damien had expected.

“You have a commission?” the Patriarch asked coldly.

Books lined every wall, punctuated by small, pierced-glass windows that broke up the city’s lights into a thousand jeweled sparks. What furniture there was, was rich: a heavy mahogova desk, crimson velvet cushions on the single matching chair, antique drapes and patterned carpets that spoke of wealth in careful, tasteful investment. Damien looked around for some convenient resting spot, at last chose a shelf edge to support his bag while he rummaged inside it for the Matriarch’s letter. Dust rose up from the travel-stained pack and settled on several of the nearer shelves; he could feel the Patriarch’s eyes on him, disapproving, even before he faced him.

“Her Holiness sends her best,” he announced, and he handed over the vellum envelope. The Patriarch regarded it for a moment, noting that the seal of the Church which granted it official status had been set to one side, so that the envelope remained open. He glanced up at Damien, briefly, cold blue eyes acknowledging the message:
She trusts you.
And adding his own:
I don’t.

Then he removed the commission itself and read.

Power,
Damien thought.
He radiates power.
When he was certain that the Patriarch’s attention was firmly fixed on the document, he whispered the key to a Knowing.
Softly—very
softly—knowing that if he were caught Working the fae at this time and place, he might well be throwing away everything he’d hoped to accomplish. But the words, barely spoken, went unheard. The fae gathered around him, softly, and wove a picture that his mind could interpret. And yes ... it was as he had suspected. He wondered if the Patriarch even knew, or if the man attributed the force of his own presence to mere human concepts, like
charisma. Bearing.
Instead of recognizing the truth—which was that his every thought sent tiny ripples coursing through the fae, altering his environment to suit his will. A
natural,
in the vernacular. A born sorceror, whose chosen profession forbade him from acknowledging the very source of his authority.

At last the Patriarch nodded, and with carefully manicured hands he folded the commission again, sliding it back into its vellum container. “She thinks highly of you,” he said, placing it on the desk beside him: statement of fact, with neither approval nor disapproval implied.
“He is loyal, she writes, and wholly dedicated to our mission. You may depend upon his honor, his vigilance, and his discretion.”
He glared, and the thin mouth tightened. “Very well. I won’t do you the dishonor of dissembling, Damien Kilcannon Vryce. Let me tell you just how welcome you are here—you and your sorcery.”

Four long steps took him to the nearest window; Damien caught the flash of jeweled rings as he swung it open, revealing the lights of the city. For a moment he simply stared at them, as though something in the view would help him choose his words. “Since my earliest years,” he said at last, “I’ve served this region. Since that day when I was first old enough to understand just what this planet was, and what it had done to mankind, I’ve devoted myself body and soul to our salvation. It meant adhering to one god, in a world where hundreds of would-be deities clamored for worship, promising cheap and easy miracles in return for minimal offerings. It meant clinging to a Church that still bled from the memory of its greatest defeat, in an age when triumphant temples rose up like wheat in springtime. I chose what was clearly the harder path because I believed in it—
believe
in it, Reverend Vryce!—and I have never once faltered in that faith. Or in my belief that such faith is necessary, in order to restore man to his Earth-born destiny.”

A cold evening breeze gusted in through the window; the Patriarch turned his face into it, let the chill wind brush back his hair. “Most difficult of all was Church custom regarding the fae. Especially in this city, where sorcery is so cheap that the poor can buy visions of plentiful food more easily than the real thing ... and then they die of hunger, Reverend Vryce. Their bodies gutted by starvation, but a ghastly smile on their faces. Which is why I believe as I do—as my Church has believed, for nearly a thousand years. We won’t tame this tyrannical force by parceling it out to sorcerers, for their paltry spells and their squalid conjurations. The more we expose it to humankind’s greed, the more it stinks of our excesses. Gannon saw that very clearly, back in the Revival. He outlawed private sorcery for that very reason—and I agree with him, heart and soul. If you need an example of what the fae can do to a man, once it has hold of him ... consider the Prophet’s Fall. Or the First Sacrifice. Witness all the monsters that the fae has brought to life, using man’s fear as a template ... I swore to fight those things, Reverend Vryce. At any cost to myself. I swore that the fae would be tamed, according to the Prophet’s guidelines.

“And then came a letter. From your Matriarch, your Holy Mother. Informing me that the west had begun an investigation into how the fae might be manipulated for Church purposes, by a chosen few trained toward that end. Sorcery! Dress it up in holy silks as you will, it still stinks. I argued with her, pleaded with her, I would have gone so far as to threaten her if I thought it would do any good ... but your Holy Mother is a headstrong woman, and her mind was made up. And now—I am watching my Church dissolve, Reverend Vryce, my dream of salvation corrupted ...” He turned back to Damien, cold eyes narrowed. “And you are the vehicle of that corruption.”

“No one said you had to have me,” Damien snapped—and instantly regretted his lack of control. He’d been prepared for much worse than this; why was he overreacting? It was the fae that had affected him, responding to the Patriarch’s will. Why? What did he want?

For me to lose control,
he realized.
For me to act in such a way that he would have no choice but to cast me out.
It staggered the imagination, that a man who neither accepted nor understood the fae could Work it so well—without ever knowing that he did. How much of the man’s intolerance was rooted in his own need to deny the truth?

“No,” the Patriarch agreed. “I could have fragmented the Church instead, given birth to a schism that might never heal ... or begun a holy war, trying to avoid that. Those options were even more distasteful, in the end, and so I agreed. Send me your sorceror, I told her. Let me see what he does. Let me see how he operates. Let me see for myself that his Working is no threat to our faith.” His expression was icy. “If you can demonstrate that to my satisfaction I’ll be a very surprised man.”

Mustering all his self-control, Damien answered cooly, “I’ll regard that as a goal, Holiness.”

The blue eyes fixed on him, pinpoints of azure fire. “Damien Kilcannon Vryce. Knight of King Gannon’s Order of the Golden Flame. Companion of the Earth-Star Ascendant. Reverend Father of the Church of the Unification of Human Faith on Erna. What is our calling, to you?”

Damien stiffened. “A dream—that I would die to uphold, or kill to defend.”

The Patriarch nodded slowly. “Yes. Well recited. The definition of your Order—first voiced in a more bloodthirsty time than this, I dare say. But
you,
Reverend Vryce—the man. The dreamer. What do
you
believe?”

“That you’re wrong,” Damien answered quietly. “That our traditional belief system is outdated. That our ancestors perceived of the world in terms of black and white, when nearly all of it is made up of shades of gray. That the Church must adapt to that truth, in order to remain a vital entity on this world. The survival of our dream,” he stressed, “depends upon it.”

For a long moment the Patriarch simply gazed upon him, silent. “She chose well,” he said at last. Ivory silk rippled in the breeze as he reached out to take hold of the window and shut it again. “But tell me this. When you work your sorcery—when you hold the essence of this world in your hands, and use your will to give it form—can you honestly tell me that the concept of power,
for its own sake,
doesn’t tempt you? Have you never once Worked the fae for your own good—your own
personal
good, independent of the Church’s need? Never once changed the face of Nature for your own benefit? Or dreamed of doing so?”

“I’m as human as you are,” Damien answered curtly. “We all have our temptations. But our ability to rise above them—to serve an ideal, rather than the dictates of selfish instinct—is what defines us as a species.”

“Ah, yes.” The Patriarch nodded. “The Prophet’s words. He failed us, you’ll recall. And himself. As have all men, who tried to reconcile sorcery with our faith. Remember that.”

He walked to the heavy mahogova chair and sat down in it, smoothing the folds of his robe beneath him as he did so. And he sighed. “You’ll have your students, Reverend Vryce. Against my better judgment and despite my objections, but you’ll have them. A dozen of our most promising acolytes—chosen not because they have great sorcerous potential, but because their theological background is sound. You will not reach out beyond that group until I’m satisfied that this ...
experiment ...
can proceed without danger to my charges. Or my Church. Am I making myself clear?”

Damien bowed, and managed not to grin. Barely. “Very clear, Holiness.”

He clapped his hands twice. Barely a few seconds later the door swung open, and a young girl in servant’s livery entered.

“This is Kami. She’ll get you settled in. Kami, take Reverend Vryce to the rooms that have been prepared for him. See that he has a schedule of our services, and anything he needs for tonight. Breakfast is in the Annex, at eight,” he informed Damien. “A chance to meet the rest of our staff under slightly less ...
trying
circumstances.” His mouth twitched slightly; a smile? “Is that too early for you?”

“I’ll manage it, Holiness.”

The Patriarch nodded to Kami, a clear gesture of dismissal. Damien gathered up his pack and turned to follow her—but when they reached the door the Patriarch called his name softly, and he turned back.

“When it comes time to die,” the Patriarch said, “—and the time will come, as it comes to all men—what will you do then? Bow down to Nature, to the patterns of Earth-life which are the core of our very existence? Help us to lay a foundation whereby our descendants can reclaim the stars? Or submit to the temptations of this alien magic, and sell your soul for another few years of life? As the Prophet tried to do?—Consider that as you retire, Reverend Vryce.”

It was clearly a dismissal, but Damien stood his ground. “The fae isn’t magic.”

The Patriarch waved one ringed hand, dismissing the thought. “Semantic exercises. What’s the real difference?”

“Magic can be controlled,” Damien reminded him. He gave that a moment to sink in, then added, “Isn’t that what Erna’s problem is all about?”

And he bowed—with only a hint of defiance. “I’ll consider it, Holiness. Good night.”

The sun had set.

Narilka stood in the shop’s narrow doorway, eyes fixed on the western horizon. She was cold inside, just as the night was cold without. The sun had set while she was downstairs. Long ago, by the looks of it. How could she have been so careless?

The stars were almost gone.

There was no strong light in the heavens, save one full moon that stood balanced along the eastern horizon. Soon even that would be gone, and only the stars of the Rim—sparse, insubstantial—would accompany a slender crescent in the west, lighting her way home.

For a moment she almost went back into the shop, panic tightening her throat.
Help me,
she would say,
I’ve been at work longer than I should have, please walk me home....
But home was a good distance away and Gresham would be busy—and besides, he had already expressed his total disdain for her fear of the night, often enough that she knew any plea to him would fall on deaf ears.
You carry wards enough to supply the damned city with ‘em,
he’d say scornfully.
Women have walked the streets with less, and made it home all right. Where’s your sense, girl? I have work to do.

With one last deep breath of the shop’s dusty air, taken for courage, Narilka forced herself to step out into the night. The chill of the autumn evening wound around her neck like icy tendrils—or was that her fear manifesting?—and she drew her shawl closer about her, until its thick wool managed to ward off the worst of the cold.