scattered bits of it in his beard. Gray! It was an affront to everything he perceived himself to be, the first hint of decay in a life too full of challenges to slow down for anything as mundane as aging. He had almost pulled the hairs out when they first appeared—back when there were fewer than a dozen—but the sheer vanity of such an act reminded him of Tarrant, and so he’d let the damn things stay.
You could use the fae to maintain youth, he told himself. Others have done it. Ciani did it. At times, now, he could see how tempting that path might become, as age continued its inexorable assault on his flesh. But the Patriarch’s words, voiced so long ago, came back to him at such moments. When the time comes to die, as it comes to all men, will you bow down to the patterns of Earth-life that are the core of our very existence? Or submit to the temptations of this alien magic, and sell your soul for another few years of life? The acceptance of such natural processes was central to Damien’s faith, and dying at his appointed time would be his ultimate service to his God. Sure, it would be hard. Many things in this world were hard. That’s what gave them power.
“Reverend Vryce?” It was the Patriarch’s secretary, a young man Damien dimly remembered from two years back. “Please come in.”
To his surprise the man did not lead him into the audience chamber, but opened the heavy mahogova doors for him and stepped aside for him to enter alone.
It was a large room, formal like the antechamber but more impressive in size and proportion. It reminded him somewhat of Gerald Tarrant’s own audience chamber in his keep in the Forest. He stiffened as the memory of that tense meeting (so long ago that it might have been in another world, so real that it seemed hardly yesterday) came back to him. Back then one friend had been dying, another kidnapped, and the Hunter was his enemy. Now... he felt something tighten inside his gut as he walked toward the arbiter of his faith. Now he was... what? The Hunter’s ally?
The Patriarch’s expression was stonelike, unreadable, but a cold rage burned in his eyes. Such was the chill of it that Damien could feel his skin tighten in physical response. In two years’ time he had managed to forget the power the Holy Father wielded: not simply the force of a unique personality, but the faeborn aggression of a man who molded the currents to his will without even knowing it. Now, standing against the force of that rage was like trying to keep his footing in a riptide.
If only you could learn to wield that power consciously, Damien thought, no man could stand against you. But the Patriarch never would. Sorcery was anathema to him, and so he had blocked all knowledge of his own natural skills, and lived an illusion of flesh-bound helplessness. God alone knows what would happen to you if you ever learned the truth.
“I’ve received your reports,” the Patriarch said acidly. He gestured briefly to a table by his side, and the manuscripts that lay upon it. Damien saw the coarse sheets of his first report, shipped home from Faraday, and the thinner package of notes and drawings he had delivered himself to the Cathedral two days ago. At the time it had seemed like a good idea, letting the Patriarch see the nature of the war they were fighting in the hope he would be more forgiving about how the battle had been waged. But the ribbon which sealed the second package was still unbroken. He began to protest, then stopped himself. The Holy Father had deliberately chosen not to read his work in advance of their meeting as a gesture of his condemnation. To protest such a move would only bring that rage crashing down upon his head.
You knew this would be bad, he told himself. Defiance will only make it worse. Swallow your pride for once in your goddamn life and wait this out. It’ll pass. But it was hard, so very hard. It went against every instinct of self-preservation that he had.
“I’m sure
You could use the fae to maintain youth, he told himself. Others have done it. Ciani did it. At times, now, he could see how tempting that path might become, as age continued its inexorable assault on his flesh. But the Patriarch’s words, voiced so long ago, came back to him at such moments. When the time comes to die, as it comes to all men, will you bow down to the patterns of Earth-life that are the core of our very existence? Or submit to the temptations of this alien magic, and sell your soul for another few years of life? The acceptance of such natural processes was central to Damien’s faith, and dying at his appointed time would be his ultimate service to his God. Sure, it would be hard. Many things in this world were hard. That’s what gave them power.
“Reverend Vryce?” It was the Patriarch’s secretary, a young man Damien dimly remembered from two years back. “Please come in.”
To his surprise the man did not lead him into the audience chamber, but opened the heavy mahogova doors for him and stepped aside for him to enter alone.
It was a large room, formal like the antechamber but more impressive in size and proportion. It reminded him somewhat of Gerald Tarrant’s own audience chamber in his keep in the Forest. He stiffened as the memory of that tense meeting (so long ago that it might have been in another world, so real that it seemed hardly yesterday) came back to him. Back then one friend had been dying, another kidnapped, and the Hunter was his enemy. Now... he felt something tighten inside his gut as he walked toward the arbiter of his faith. Now he was... what? The Hunter’s ally?
The Patriarch’s expression was stonelike, unreadable, but a cold rage burned in his eyes. Such was the chill of it that Damien could feel his skin tighten in physical response. In two years’ time he had managed to forget the power the Holy Father wielded: not simply the force of a unique personality, but the faeborn aggression of a man who molded the currents to his will without even knowing it. Now, standing against the force of that rage was like trying to keep his footing in a riptide.
If only you could learn to wield that power consciously, Damien thought, no man could stand against you. But the Patriarch never would. Sorcery was anathema to him, and so he had blocked all knowledge of his own natural skills, and lived an illusion of flesh-bound helplessness. God alone knows what would happen to you if you ever learned the truth.
“I’ve received your reports,” the Patriarch said acidly. He gestured briefly to a table by his side, and the manuscripts that lay upon it. Damien saw the coarse sheets of his first report, shipped home from Faraday, and the thinner package of notes and drawings he had delivered himself to the Cathedral two days ago. At the time it had seemed like a good idea, letting the Patriarch see the nature of the war they were fighting in the hope he would be more forgiving about how the battle had been waged. But the ribbon which sealed the second package was still unbroken. He began to protest, then stopped himself. The Holy Father had deliberately chosen not to read his work in advance of their meeting as a gesture of his condemnation. To protest such a move would only bring that rage crashing down upon his head.
You knew this would be bad, he told himself. Defiance will only make it worse. Swallow your pride for once in your goddamn life and wait this out. It’ll pass. But it was hard, so very hard. It went against every instinct of self-preservation that he had.
“I’m sure
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