Crown of Shadows by C. S. Friedman Page A

I don’t need to comment upon your breach of protocol in leaving this continent without permission.” The Patriarch’s tone was like ice. “Your own report made it clear that you knew exactly what you were doing—and, I suspect, exactly what the eventual cost of such disobedience would be. To show such a level of disrespect for proper authority is a grave offense in a Church whose very foundation is hierarchical stability.” He shook his head stiffly. “But you’re not a stupid man, Reverend Vryce, though sometimes you play at it. You’ve read the Prophet’s writings often enough to know your sin for what it was.”
    “I thought the situation merited it,” he dared. Where was the safe ground in this scene? He wished he dared work a Knowing for guidance, but that was, of course, out of the question. “Under the circumstances—”
    “Please. Don’t insult us both. You knew exactly what you were doing, and what my reaction would be. And you also knew that your blatant defiance would give me the authority to discipline you in whatever manner I thought best, without interference from anyone.”
    There it was, the threat at last. How bad will it be? he thought desperately. He remembered the nightmare Tarrant had once crafted for him, in which the Patriarch had cast him out of the Church. Would he really go that far? Without even reading his report, which justified so many of his actions? He began to protest, then bit back on it in anguish. The Patriarch was radiating rage in waves that warped the fae all around them; he wanted the priest to react to him in anger, to justify the very harshest sentence. If Damien gave in to that influence and lost his temper, even for a moment, he might indeed lose everything.
    “I am the Church’s loyal servant,” he muttered.
    “Yes,” he said icily. “You are still that. For now.”
    He stared at Damien in silence for several long seconds. Studying him? Measuring his response? He forced himself to say nothing, knowing that any words he chose would be wrong.
    “You traveled with the Hunter,” the Patriarch said at last. His voice was cold, his manner utterly condemning. “A man so evil that many consider him to be a true demon. There’s enough wrongdoing in that one act alone to condemn a dozen priests like you... and yet the matter doesn’t end there, does it?” The cold eyes narrowed. “Does it!”
    “We needed him,” Damien said tightly. “We needed the kind of power he controlled to—”
    “Listen to yourself! Listen to your own words! You needed his power. You needed his sorcery.” He shook his head sharply. “Do you think it makes a difference whether you fashion a Working yourself, or hire another to do it? Either way, you are responsible for the proliferation of sorcery. And in this case, for the proliferation of evil.”
    He waved his hand suddenly, as if dismissing all that. For an instant something flashed in his eyes that was not rage. Exhaustion? Then it was gone, and only steel resolve remained. “But you know that argument as well as I do, Reverend Vryce. And I have no doubt that you’ve gone over it yourself time and time again, trying to find some theological loophole to save yourself with. An intelligent man can justify anything in his own mind, if he’s determined enough.”
    He paused for a moment then, and Damien could almost feel the waves of condemnation lapping about his feet. The man’s power was vast, if unconscious; by now all the fae in the room would be surely echoing his words, undermining the foundations of Damien’s confidence. How did you fight such a thing without Working openly? “My only intention—” he began.
    The Patriarch cut him short. “You fed him your blood.” It wasn’t a question, but a statement of utter revulsion. “More than once.”
    He was so stunned by the accusation that he could manage no coherent response, could only whisper “What?” The Patriarch couldn’t possibly have knowledge of that