Celia Friedman - Crown of Shadows

“May You cleanse this land forever of the darkness which once ruled here,” he prayed. Thin streamers of red were unfurling in the water, reaching toward the stunned men and women who stood upon the opposite bank. “May You cleanse my people of the darkness which has gripped their souls, so that in this new world which they have made they may be worthy of salvation. In Your Name, Lord God of Earth and Erna.”

Earth-fae. It would give his words tenfold power, and adhere his message to the souls of his people. With his new sight he could see the power of his sacrifice spreading out in waves from the falling blood, and as each wave touched the future-images surrounding him they shimmered and shifted, taking on new patterns of potential. Some were more positive than before, but not enough. Not enough! God in Heaven, was he offering up his life for nothing?

And then Damien Vryce moved forward. Hesitantly at first, his eyes never leaving the Patriarch, then with firm conviction as he stepped into the river. He walked forward until he was near the river’s center, knee-deep in the mountain water, then reached down with his hand and touched it. A thin stream of red curled about his fingers, almost invisible now as the Patriarch’s blood thinned in the river’s swift current. With a muttered prayer he brought up his hand to his forehead and touched it, leaving a drop of water on his brow. As he bowed to the Holy Father, another man staggered forward, following his lead. And another. And another. In the waters of sacrifice they baptized one another, and he could see the futures that gathered about them shifting tenor as they accepted, by that ritual, the gesture he had made. Scenes of violence dissipated even as he watched, and he felt tears come to his eyes as he saw them replaced by visions of hope, and peace, and reverence.

It wasn’t all in vain, then.

No one saw him raise up the knife again, to a point some six inches down from where he had cut before. No one saw him press its slender point into his flesh, or twist it deep between the bones, or cup his hands so that the sudden spurt of arterial blood might be disguised as something less vital.

I accept Your judgment, God of Earth and Erna, and give myself into Your Hands.

He saw Andrys Tarrant step into the water, then turn back to see if his lover was following. Did she know that for a thousand years the Tarrant men had refused to marry except within the Church? After a moment-a long moment, fraught with obvious indecision-she nodded, and stepped into the water beside him, accepting the hand that he offered her.

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.

Unto your judgment, my God. For Love of You.

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.