Celia Friedman - Black Sun Rising

“Go on,” he said quietly.

“It’s said that his servants can walk the earth as men, once the sun is gone. For which reason you’ll rarely see women abroad alone after dark—they walk guarded, or in groups.”

“You call it he,” he said quietly. “You think it’s a man.”

“I do, myself. Others don’t.”

“An adept?”

“He would have to be, wouldn’t he?”

“Whom the Forest dominated.”

She studied him, as if choosing her words with care. “Maybe,” she said at last. Watching him. “I think not.”

Or he dominated the Forest. The thought was staggering. All the might of the Church had been pitted against the measureless evil in a war to end all wars . . . to no avail. Was it possible that one single man might dominate such a place, when thousands had given up their lives failing to do so?

With a start he realized that she had signaled for the bill, and was gathering her jacket about her shoulders. Had they been here that long?

“It’s getting late,” she said, apologetically. “I do have to get back.”

“To meet with them?” He tried to keep his tone light but there was an edge to it that he failed to disguise.

The bill was placed between them. He looked at it.

“There are ninety-six pagan churches in this city,” she warned him. “Nineteen adepts, and nearly a thousand more that style themselves sorcerers, or its equivalent. You won’t like any of them, or approve of what they do. So don’t ask.”

“I don’t know about that. I rather like this one.”

She looked at him, clearly bemused, and at last shoot her head. “You’re not half bad company, considering your livelihood. Far better than I expected.”

He grinned. “I try.”

“You’ll be in town for a while?”

“If they can tolerate me.”

She didn’t ask who he was referring to, which confirmed the fact that she already knew. Her Knowing had been thorough indeed—and little surprise, in such a place as this.

He looked out into the night-bound plaza, and thought of the things that such darkness might hide.

“Come on,” he told her, and he scattered eastern coins on the table. “I’ll walk you back.”

If the cathedral had seemed magnificent from a distance, it was even more impressive from up close. Greater archways soared above lesser ones, the space between them filled with a rich assortment of stylized carvings. Layer upon layer of ornamentation covered the vast edifice, as if its designer had suffered from a phobia of unadorned space; but if the whole of it was overworked, by modem standards, that too was part of its style. The strength of Revivalist architecture lay in its capacity to overwhelm the viewer.

Damien stood at the base of the massive front staircase and let himself open up to all that its presence implied: the faith of thousands bound together, serving one Law; the remnants of a great dream that had been damaged but not destroyed in one terrible war, that had fragmented man’s Church and left him at the mercy of what this strange planet called Nature; the hope that someday faith would conquer fae, and the whole of Erna could be colonized—safely—at last.

All those impressions filled him, joining with the warmth of his body: the coursing heat of rich ale in his veins, the triumph of his arrival, and the exhilaration of sexual diplomacy.

If I were not so dusty, he had said to her, when at last they returned to her shop, I might attempt to seduce you.

If you were not so dusty, she had answered with a smile, you might stand a chance of success.

An excellent omen for the future, he thought.

The last congregants of the night were descending on both sides of him, parting like a wave as they poured down the ivory steps. No women walked alone, he noted, but they stayed together in small groups, or were guarded by men; even here, on God’s own front steps, the shadow of the Hunter was felt.

Then the last well-wishers shook hands with their priest and made their descent, and the great ornate doors were swung slowly shut, closing out the night.

He looked at them for a while, admiring their intricate carvings, and then climbed the steps himself and knocked.

A sub-door opened and a robed man with a small lamp peeked out. Against the background of the gleaming white steps, in the wake of so many well-dressed attendants, Damien knew that he looked his grubbiest.

“Well?” the man asked, in a tone of voice that clearly stated: We are closed for the night. He shot a suspicious glance toward Damien’s sword.

“The building is open?”

With a sigh of exasperation the man stepped aside, allowing Damien to enter. Yes, technically the building was unlocked, and anyone could enter it to pray—that was Church custom, in east and west alike—and if some rough warrior wanted to do so at this time, the man had no right to turn him away. Damien had known that when he asked. But as he ducked beneath the lintel of the low, narrow sub-door, and entered the foyer of the cathedral itself, the man’s hand fell like a warning on his shoulder.

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 sorcerer, whose chosen profession forbade him from acknowledging the very source of his authority.