Celia Friedman: When True Night Falls

“I felt there was a chance that I might not come back,” Damien said stiffly. “I thought you should have all the facts you would need to deal with the Hunter, in case he returned without me—”

The blue eyes were fixed on him, their depths unforgiving. “That’s not the issue and you know it. The issue is your failure to return here. The issue is your summary dismissal of my authority. The issue is not whether you sent me a report, but the fact that you sent it in lieu of a personal audience. And I think we both know why you did that.”

Accusation, plain and simple. Damien’s hands clenched at his sides; his heart began to pound, so loud it was hard to concentrate. He could lose it all here. Everything. All he had to do was say the wrong word, lie the wrong lie, and his whole life might come crashing down around him. The Patriarch had that kind of power.

“Time was of the essence,” he said at last. Choosing his words with care. “I tried to explain that in my letter. What I intended—”

The Patriarch cut him off with a sharp gesture. “What you intended, Reverend Vryce, was to avoid any personal contact with me. Do you think I don’t know why? You were afraid that if you petitioned for leave to pursue this matter—as you should have done, as the hierarchy of our Church demands that you do—that I would have denied it. And rightfully so.” His gaze was fixed on the priest, as chill and as piercing as coldfire. “Or perhaps you were afraid that I would permit you to go . . . but demand that you choose more suitable allies.”

Damien drew in a deep breath slowly, and thought: There it is. That’s what this is all about. Not that Damien had failed to return to Jaggonath, not that his report was insufficient, not even that he had acted without sanction from his superior . . . but that he had chosen to travel with one of the greatest evils his world had ever produced. An evil so subtle and so sophisticated that it might corrupt even a priest’s soul, a priest’s dreams. And through that priest—just perhaps—the Church.

Was that possible? Had it begun already, deep inside him, where he refused to look? In his mind’s eye he could see the Hunter grinning, a drop of fresh blood gleaming at the corner of his mouth. And he recoiled inwardly at the memory of that polluted soul, the touch of its malignancy against his own being. But Gerald Tarrant represented power, plain and simple, and they needed that kind o force. It was worth any price, he told himself, to have it. Even the risk of corruption.

Wasn’t it?

We need his power on our side, he told himself. Otherwise an even greater evil will take control of us all. Doesn’t thai mandate some kind of alliance? But suddenly he wasn’t sure of that. Suddenly he wasn’t sure of anything. It was one thing to dismiss such a creature in mere words, especially as it had been months since he had last seen Gerald Tarrant. But the Patriarch’s words, fae-reinforced, awakened memories far more direct, more horrifying. The Hunter’s soul, caressing his own. The Hunter’s vileness invading the deepest recesses of his heart, his soul, his faith. Leaving behind a channel that clung to him like a parasite, a reminder of the power that linked them. What would the Patriarch say if he knew about that? If he understood that Damien had submitted to a bond with the Hunter, which would endure for as long as they both lived?

“That was your real fear,” the Patriarch accused “Wasn’t it? That I would recognize your lies for what they were—”

“There are no lies—”

“Half-truths, then! Evasions. Deceptions. It all amounts to the same thing, Vryce!” He slammed his hand down on the report. “You write that Senzei Reese died, but never mention how! Never mention that in his last moments he destroyed a holy relic I had entrusted to you. That this treasure from our past was wasted. Wasted! And then there is the matter of the Hunter—”

“I can explain—”

“What? That fate flung the two of you together? That for the sake of your partnership he committed no sins while in your presence?” The cold eyes burned with condemnation, intense as the Hunter’s coldfire. “You saved his life,” the Patriarch accused. “When the enemy had captured him, and bound him, and sentenced him to destruction, you freed him. You. Did you think I wouldn’t find out?” he demanded. “Is that why you sent me this . . . this . . .” He struggled to find a suitable phrase, at last spat out, “This travesty of a report? Hoping I would never learn the truth?”

He desperately tried to think of something to say—a protest, a plea, anything—but how could he answer such a charge? When he had written his report (agonizing over each and every word, analyzing every turn of phrase a thousand times over) he had never imagined that the Patriarch would learn the truth. Never. But now he realized that he had underestimated the man. The Patriarch was a natural sorcerer, even though he refused to acknowledge the fact. It stood to reason that the fae, altering the laws of probability in response to his will, should cause him to meet up with a source of information. Damien should have seen it coming. He should have prepared . . .

“You saved his life,” the Patriarch repeated. Utter condemnation, spiced with a more personal venom. “In his name you betrayed your vows, your people. And God Himself, who sits judgment on all of us! Every evil which the Hunter commits, from now until the moment of his demise, will be because of you. Every wound the Church must suffer because of his influence, it will suffer because you freed him. Because you encouraged him to endure.”

He stepped forward, an openly aggressive move. Startled, Damien stepped back. The thick white wool of his ritual robe tangled about his ankles, an unfamiliar obstacle. About his neck the heavy gold collar of his Order pricked his skin with etched flame-points, sharp metal edges hot against the chill of his skin. Why had he worn these things? Had he thought that the regalia of his Order might shield him from the Patriarch’s anger? If so, they had failed utterly.

“In the name of the One God,” the Patriarch pronounced, “I have been given authority over this region—and you. ” He paused, giving the fact of his absolute authority a moment to sink in. “And in the name of God I now exercise it. In the name of those thousands who gave their lives to redeem this world, choosing death before corruption. In the name of the martyrs of our faith, who served the Church in its darkest hours—and never wavered in their service, though they faced more terrible trials than you or I can imagine. In their name, Reverend Sir Damien Vryce, in their most holy memory do I now divorce you from our service—”

Fear took hold of him as he recognized the ritual. “Holy Father, no—”

“In their name I now declare you cast out from the society of priests, and from the Orders that initiated you—”

“Don’t-”

The Patriarch reached forward too quickly for Damien to respond, and his hand closed tightly about the golden collar. “Damien Kilcannon Vryce, I hereby dismiss you from our Church and from all its Orders, now and forever.” And he pulled back, hard, with the kind of strength that only rage could conjure. Metal cut into the back of Damien’s neck as the decorative links strained to part, drawing blood as they finally gave way. The Patriarch pulled the heavy collar from him. “You are unfit for our society.” He threw the collar to the floor, and ground his foot into the delicate metalwork. “If not for any human society,” he added venomously.

For a moment Damien just stared at the Patriarch, unable to respond. Despair overwhelmed him, and a sense of utter helplessness. What could he say now that would make a difference? The Patriarch’s authority was absolute. Even the Holy Mother, Matriarch of the westlands, would respect and honor such a dismissal. Which meant that he was no longer a priest. Which meant in turn that he was . . . nothing. Because he suddenly realized that he had no identity that was not Church-born; there was no fragment of his psyche that did not define itself according to the Prophet’s dream, the Prophet’s hierarchy.