Crown of Shadows (69 page)

One more soul for God,
he thought. That was how you won a world. Step by step. Infinite patience....

The world began to waver in his vision. The futures—so many favorable now!—began to fade. How long would it be before they realized what he had done? He tried to step down from his perch, but the water surrounding it was deeper than he remembered and he went down heavily, his damaged leg slamming into the river bed hard enough to send spear points of pain shafting up into his groin and beyond. He groaned, and for a moment almost fell. One or two of his people started toward him, but he waved them back. His wounded arm hung down now, where none could see it, and it seemed strangely distant now, not like part of his own flesh at all. From somewhere came the sound of splashing, as if of a body approaching, but that, too, seemed distant, a sound from another world. He drew in a deep breath and swayed, his strength ebbing out into the cold river current that swirled about his thighs.
The efficacy of sacrifice is in direct proportion to the value of that which is destroyed.
Or so the Prophet had written. What could possibly be of more value to this Patriarch, whose greatest dream had been to live long enough to see his world change? “I have nothing more precious to give,” he whispered to his God. Darkness was closing in about his vision like a tunnel. The river’s murmur had become a roar that filled his ears and drowned out all other sound. He could feel himself drifting off, could feel his soul’s linkage to the flesh that housed it separating like a frayed cord, and he struggled to remain upright as long as possible. Best to die with dignity, he thought, to give this symbol power. Best to hold out long enough that no one tried to save him, until he was finally past all saving.

And then he felt a touch at his side, human warmth, a powerful grip. He managed to focus clearly enough to make out a face, bearded and scarred and furrowed with concern. Vryce. At first he thought the man was going to try to help him, but then he saw the truth, that Vryce understood—not only what he was doing, but the necessity for doing it—and he let the man support him as the last of his worldly strength left him. Upright unto the end, his lifeblood staining his robes and Vryce’s jacket as it streamed off into the river, to cleanse the Forest with its power.

In the darkness that was gathering now he saw a vision slowly take shape. A hazy point of light shimmered, shivered, then expanded into the shape of a planet, complete and perfect before his eyes. Erna. He could sense the rhythms of its tides, the heat of its life, the immeasurable beauty of its potential. He sensed the peace of a planet in utter harmony, where all life and all of nature were bound together by a power that flowed around and through everything....

... and he felt the presence of Man on Erna, an alien intrusion, abhorrent. He saw the tides of fae respond to the invader’s presence, struggling to absorb him, to adapt. He heard the voice of one man rising above that of three thousand, offering Erna a key, a channel, a Pattern for contact.

Sacrifice.

Loss as a link; destruction as a creative force. Casca’s madness reshaped the currents, carving out a niche of violence and mourning for his species to inhabit. And mankind thrived. The children of the colonists spread out across the planet, until their numbers were so great that no one man might command that kind of power again. Only something greater than a man, that served as the focus of a thousand souls. Something like a Church. A crusade.

A legend.

He saw a mountain crowned with smoke, whose slopes spewed forth gouts of fire, whose base was ringed by ghosts. He saw a man climb up that slope—but no, not a man, not
merely
a man. This was a legend incarnate, figurehead for a nation of fear. The Hunter trailed nightmares in his wake, that linked him to a million souls across the face of the planet. And when he raised up his sword and bound the fae to serve him, when he offered up the most valuable thing that any man possessed, the very currents shook with the force of his conjuring. From the ground at his feet shock waves swept across the planet, and the Patriarch saw that when they passed, the currents of the fae shifted, as if accepting some new message into their substance. A new Impression, more powerful than Casca’s. A new Pattern for contact, that would change the face of sorcery forever.

He saw his own body as if from a great height, Vryce now wholly supporting its weight. He saw men wading across the river in panic as they realized what he had done, but it was too late now for them to save him. The deed was done, the Pattern consummated. A new set of futures was taking shape, brighter and clearer than any he had seen before, and in them he could see the force of his own sacrifice encircling the globe, reflected and magnified in the souls of his faithful like sunlight in fine crystal. Such power, he saw, could change Erna forever. The Hunter had already paved the way, establishing a new channel for the currents to follow. He, with his death, would confirm that Pattern, and set it upon the face of the planet forever.

Self-sacrifice.

How many sorcerers would practice their Art when death was the price of a Working? How many men would be willing to part with their lives as casually as they had once parted with books, or artifacts, or even the lives of others? Those few who might dare to Work wouldn’t be men of greed or cowardice now; the new rules would scare those away. Perhaps one man in a million would dare to pay the price the fae demanded, to serve a higher goal. Perhaps. As for the rest, they would observe that the fae was now a distant force, unWorkable ... and slowly the fae would respond to that belief, and become so in truth. As it had changed after Casca’s sacrifice, so it would change again.

Bright futures exploded before his eyes, blinding in their brilliance. He saw a sky peppered with colorful explosions, winged carriages that flew like birds, a thousand and one precious legends of Earth come alive before him. There were things he didn’t know the name for and things whose purpose he couldn’t begin to guess at, but oh, the overall pattern was clear. Tears came to his eyes as future after future unfolded before him, not all of them perfect, but so full of hope! He saw what must have been a spaceship—how smooth it was, how plain in design, how unlike anything he would have imagined a spaceship to be!—and then the visions began to fade, pictures bleeding into a field of light, sensations into a numbing warmth—

“Thank You, Lord,” he whispered. Voicing the words within his soul, not knowing or caring if they ever reached his lips. “Thank You for giving me this.”

Slowly, peacefully, the Patriarch let loose his hold on life, and slid down into the embrace of his God.

The Wedding
was held in Merentha, beneath suitably sunny skies. There were storm clouds to the west, but no one saw them. There was a faint whiff of ozone in the air, harbinger of trouble to come, but no one smelled it. There were even a few drops of rain that fell upon the crowd during the ceremony itself, but no one noticed them, and the spots of wetness that lingered for some time afterward went likewise unregarded. All in all, despite the true weather, it seemed a beautiful day.

From his vantage point at the edge of the milling crowd, Karril grinned at the figure by his side. “Nice going, Sis.”

Saris smiled.

There were flowers strewn about the ancient estate in such profusion that the air was a heady perfume, the scents of roses, carnations, lilacs, and a dozen other varieties all mingling in the afternoon breeze. True Earth-flowers, all of them, rushed to Merentha from gardens and hothouses all over the continent. They were gathered in pots by the front of the house, they twined up the trellis supports of the bridal canopy, they festooned the silk canopy itself in carefully orchestrated profusion. On the great wall they had been arranged so as to cover the sections of new mortar and stone which had recently been added, making it seem that the antique barrier was as perfect on this day as it had been when erected, nearly five hundred years ago. And if the scent of the flowers lacked perfect balance in any one place, if the cloying sweetness of one bloom interfered with the delicate fragrance of another ... well, that was one problem easily corrected. It paid to have Iezu among the wedding guests.

“How many of us are here, do you think?” Saris whispered.

Karril looked over the multitude and ventured a quick count. “Ten that I can see. Maybe more. Hard to pick them out in this crowd.”

“All in human form,” she mused. Her tone that made it clear that she found the thought incredible.

“Of course.” He chuckled. “Wouldn’t want to detract from the proceedings, would we?” He patted her gently on the shoulder—nesh-toned, not silver, and as flawless in texture as one would expect from a Iezu of her aspect—and whispered, “It’s more fun this way, isn’t it?”

“Fun
is your department, not mine.” But she smiled as she said it, and he sensed her relaxing at last into the unfamiliar masquerade.

A bridal canopy had been raised in the middle of the courtyard, in accordance with some ancient Earth-custom whose purpose had been forgotten even as its aesthetic details were faithfully preserved. Sunlight shone through the fine white silk, rendering it aglow against the azure brilliance of the afternoon sky. White was the color of weddings, according to Earth tradition, and despite the fact that most of Erna preferred more festive colors, the Tarrant clan had always been Earth-reverent in its practices. Today was no exception.

And Andrys Tarrant looked fine in white, there was no doubt about that. White velvet ribbed in white satin cording for a jacket, full white sleeves of a silk so light that it fluttered in the breeze like fine gauze, white leather gloves and boots so supple that they clung to his body like a second skin, fringed and embroidered with silken threads of the same hue. Against such a background his skin, normally so pale in aspect, took on the bronze sheen of a healthy tan, and the sun picked out Core-gold highlights in his newly trimmed hair. He looked good and he knew it, and his self-confidence, as always, was irresistible to those who surrounded him. Karril chuckled as waves of lust rose from the crowd that gathered around him, mostly (but not all) from women. As for the ladies he had courted and seduced in the past, there were dozens of them here today, and not all had come to wish him well. For the most part they crowded around the wedding lawn with an impatient mixture of curiosity and resentment, waiting to see the waiflike foreigner who had stolen the prize they had so coveted.

She was beautiful, there was no doubt of that. There was no Iezu illusion active here, nor any need for it. The soft silk gown of graduated layers, Revival-inspired, made her slender form seem almost wraithlike, angelic, and her jet-black hair, hanging loose about her shoulders, cascaded down her back like a second veil. When the wedding crowns were placed upon their heads (of her own design, it was whispered, sculpted and polished by those same slender hands that now offered and received a pair of rings) the fine silver filigree glittered against the jet-black strands like stars on a clear night.

“Flat as a board,” one woman whispered, drawing up her own considerable endowment into a position of prominence. “Pale as a ghost,” another observed, lightly stroking her own cocoa skin. “Won’t last a week,” a third muttered, and they all nodded their agreement that yes, they knew Andrys Tarrant’s taste in women, and no, this stick of a ghost-child wasn’t going to keep him amused for long.

It was a priest of the One God who bound the two together, and Saris nodded her approval as the second rings were exchanged, the bonds of Earth joining those of secular marriage in a tradition as ancient as the Tarrant name. She had known, as Narilka had not, the tradition of that family, and as much as she would miss the girl as a worshiper she knew there were times that even a “goddess” had to give way to fate.
Would she have signed on to his faith so willingly if I hadn’t released her back then, when all this started?
she wondered. Either way, she had no regrets. The difference between a true godling and a Iezu was that the latter wasn’t dependent upon worship. And love, besides, was a very special kind of beauty.