An unfamiliar emotion flickered in the back of those cold, clear eyes. Fear? "They haven't done anything to you yet."

"Not yet," he agreed. "But for how long?" To Damien's surprise he sighed heavily; the action was disturbingly human.

He walked the length of the room, then stopped; Damien thought he saw his shoulders tense. "Do you know, sometimes I pray to them? Not as a worshiper to a G.o.d, but as servant to an angry master. I try to make them understand that in seeking Calesta's destruction I'm only ensuring my own survival, the better to serve them. If such an act happened to benefit the Church I founded, or humankind in general ... that would be an unfortunate side effect, nothing more." He shook his head. "I wish I believed that myself."

Damien chose his words carefully. "You think it isn't true?"

The Hunter hesitated. "I was so sure of myself, once. I lived in a world without doubt, without any need for introspection. My soul was as pure in its darkness as the night-fae itself, which is banished by the merest hint of sunlight. Then you came into my life. You! With your questions and your warped logic and your bonds of mutual dependency and purpose ... and I changed. Slowly, but I did change. No human soul could fail to do so, under the circ.u.mstances-and the core of my soul is human, Vryce, despite what Karril would call its "h.e.l.lish trappings." That was both the source of my strength and my greatest weakness. In the end, thanks to you, it will be my destruction." The sharp eyes narrowed. "But that was what you hoped for, wasn't it? After all this is over, I could do you no better service than to die and be d.a.m.ned."

"Gerald, please-"

He waved a hand, cutting short his protest. "I don't blame you, Vryce. I blame myself for letting it happen. You did no more or less than your nature demanded. I only wonder what the price will be, when I'm finally called to answer for my actions."

"Surely a few months of weakness won't outweigh the record of nine hundred years."

"The Unnamed has no compa.s.sion, and nothing to lose by injustice. Its judgment is as much the result of momentary structure as of logic. Divided into parts, it can be petty and fickle and unpredictable; unified, it's the most ruthless evil this world has ever known. Thank G.o.d the latter state rarely endures for long."

"What do you mean, divided? divided? I don't understand." I don't understand."

The cold eyes fixed on him: black now, and empty as the true night. "Better that you don't," he warned.

"That force has a habit of devouring anything which touches it; better men than you have fallen to it in the past, for no greater sin than seeking to understand its nature. And I wasn't the first to court it for its power, you know. But I may be the only one to come through such negotiations with my soul intact. It delights in corrupting humanity, and will toy with its victims like a cat tortures prey. Also its servitors," he added grimly. "Anyone who gives it an opening."

"Maybe it despises Calesta as much as you do," Damien suggested. "Maybe it regards your current attempts as a kind of service."

"Doubtful." His brow furrowed as he considered the thought. "One would think Calesta's habits would be to its liking."

"Rivalry, perhaps?"

"The Iezu are petty demons. The Unnamed is ... beyond that."

"Petty demons who can't be Banished, or otherwise controlled. Independent spirits who mean to remake the Unnamed One's domain."

"Perhaps," he said dubiously. "At least that might explain-"

He stopped then. And did not proceed.

"What?" When the Hunter didn't respond, he pressed, "Tell me, Gerald. What is it?"

"I Divined our conflict," he said softly. Eyes shut, recalling the Working to his inner vision. "It's an imprecise art at best, as you know, and in this case all it conjured was chaos. I watched the corruption of the Church proceed from a thousand beginnings, and in none of them could I see any hope of change. I witnessed both our deaths a dozen times-yes, yours and mine-in a dozen different forums. I saw worlds in which Calesta triumphed, and such change was wrought that our human ancestors wouldn't have recognized Erna's children as their kin. All tangled together, Reverend Vryce: a skein of futures so enmeshed that even my skill couldn't pull the threads loose. But there were patterns even in that chaos, things which recurred time and time again." He looked at Damien. "The interference of the Unnamed was one. I had a.s.sumed it would strike at me directly, in vengeance for my many transgressions, but who can know what pa.s.ses for vengeance in a mind that knows no permanence? And more than once I saw a sorcerer at the head of the Church, a man whose power was equal to my own, who might lead that body down the one safe path among millions. But what sense does that make? Even if such a man existed, the Church would cast him out." He shook his head tightly, frustrated. "Too many futures, Vryce, and nearly all of them lead to failure. I can't make out anything useful."

He managed to keep his voice steady, though suddenly his heart was pounding. "There is a sorcerer in the Church, Gerald."

"What? Where?" Then he waved a hand, dismissing the thought. "This was a man in control control of things, Vryce. They would never give a sorcerer such authority." of things, Vryce. They would never give a sorcerer such authority."

"They would if he were the Patriarch."

The look on Gerald Tarrant's face was one he never thought he would see: pure, unadulterated astonishment. "The Patriarch? But how-?"

"He doesn't know it. And I'm sure no one else has guessed. But I worked a Knowing in his presence once...."

And he told him about his conversations with the Holy Father. About the way the fae responded to the man, even though he couldn't See it. About how it served his unconscious will even while his words denied its power.

"He's a natural," he concluded. "I'm sure of it."

Tarrant reached for the nearest chair and dropped himself heavily into it. It was clear that he hadn't been braced for this kind of news. And how could he be? His own d.a.m.nation had been a.s.sured by the Church's rejection of any such power. How could he accept that suddenly the rules might change, without questioning his own existence? "An adept?" he breathed. "Could he be that also?"

"Is it possible?"

"You mean, could a man be born with Sight and deny it? Block it so utterly that he never even knew it existed?" He hesitated. "It might be. So many infants die or go insane each year, that we think might have been fledgling adepts. Is it unreasonable to think that a newborn might learn to deny its fae-visions, when no other family member acknowledges their reality? G.o.d of Earth and Erna," he whispered. There was a new note in his voice. Awe? "If so ... that would explain more than one Divination."

"You think he would help us?" He tried to keep the doubt out of his voice, but it was hard. "Is that what you saw?"

"What I saw," he said slowly, "was Calesta subverting a powerful man. I saw great vision and great stubbornness, that might be harnessed for a thousand different purposes. I saw a man destroying himself, unable to face his own potential ... and that would make sense, if it is who you suggest. But I also saw this: in any future where the Church stood the least chance of survival, this man's actions were pivotal." He looked up sharply at Damien. "Pivotal, "Pivotal, Vryce. In its literal sense. The man I saw could save the Church, but he could also destroy it." Vryce. In its literal sense. The man I saw could save the Church, but he could also destroy it."

"Can you tell where those paths diverge?" he demanded. "What's the catalyst? We can go after that."

Tarrant's eyes were unfocused as he tried to remember what he'd Seen. At last he shook his head, clearly frustrated. "It was all too tangled to make out clearly. He's not even aware of his own power yet; how can I read a future that depends upon such awareness?"

"What if he were?" he pressed. "What if he accepted it?"

The Hunter's gaze fixed on him: diamondine, piercing. "You mean, what if he became a sorcerer in truth? Then he must face the condemnation of the Church as few men have known it ... perhaps even the condemnation of his own soul. Would you wish that kind of torment on any man?"

Knowing the question for what it was, he met the Hunter's gaze head-on. "No," he said quietly. "I wouldn't wish that on any man."

The Hunter turned away from him. Sensing that he needed the moment of privacy, Damien upended his bottle of ale once more. There was still nothing in it.

"He must know the truth, then," Tarrant said at last. "Or all our efforts are doomed to failure."

"Yeah. Only who the h.e.l.l is going to tell him?"

"Perhaps 1--2'

"No," he said sharply. "You're right up there with the Unnamed as far as he's concerned. If not worse. What good can you possibly do? Stay out of this one. I'll think of ... something." he said sharply. "You're right up there with the Unnamed as far as he's concerned. If not worse. What good can you possibly do? Stay out of this one. I'll think of ... something."

Only, dear G.o.d ... what?

"Very well, then," Tarrant muttered. It was clear he had misgivings about Damien's judgment, but for now he was acquiescing. Thank G.o.d. "See what you can come up with. If not ... it need not be direct contact, you understand. Or anything he would connect with me."

Realizing what he meant, Damien rose up from his seat as he warned, "Don't you Work him! You understand me? We're talking about something that could cost this man his soul; leave him his free will to face it with!" When Tarrant didn't answer, he pressed, "You understand me, Gerald?"

The Hunter glared. "I understand."

"Promise me."

"Don't be a fool! I said I understood. I respect your opinion, although I don't agree with it. That's more than most men have had of me. Leave it at that."

"You'll leave him alone?"

The Hunter's tone was venemous. "I won't compromise his free will, I'll promise you that much. As for the rest ... find a safe way to enlighten him, or I'll do what I must. The odds against us increase dramatically if he remains ignorant, and I won't risk that just to coddle your overblown sense of morality." Before Damien could protest again, he ordered, "You go see if the Church Archives have anything useful on the Iezu. I'll Locate the local adepts, see if they have any notes of their own." He shook his head angrily. "d.a.m.n Senzei Reese, for what he destroyed! If the man weren't already dead, I'd kill him myself."

For a moment there was silence between them, but it was a purely vocal phenomenon; the channel that linked them was alive with such hostile energy that Damien could hear the Hunter's next words as clearly as if they had been spoken. Don't press me for a.s.surances I won't give. All that you'll accomplish by that is to strain the tenuous foundation of our alliance, and that would put us both at risk. Don't press me for a.s.surances I won't give. All that you'll accomplish by that is to strain the tenuous foundation of our alliance, and that would put us both at risk.

Tarrant started toward the door. Damien stepped forward quickly and put out a hand to stop him. With his other hand he reached into his pocket for the object he had stored there, drew it out, and offered it to the man.

The Hunter's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "What is it?"

"A key. Bas.e.m.e.nt apartment in this building. It's paid for."

"For what? My lodging?" He stared at Damien as if the priest had suddenly gone mad. "Don't be ridiculous. I'll find myself a safe place-"

"This isn't the rakhlands," he snapped, "with miles between us and the enemy. He's here, all around us. Can't you feel it?" He held out the key toward him, urging him to take it. "There's a bolt on the front door that can't be opened from the outside. I boarded up all the windows. The landlady was paid well to leave you alone-she thinks you're a rich eccentric-and I even checked the quake-wards on the building, to make sure they were sound." When Tarrant made no move to take the key, he pressed, "Remember how he dealt with us? Divide and conquer. Divide and conquer. First Senzei, then you. Then Hesseth and me in the Terata's realm. He'll try it again, you can bet your undead soul on that. Let's make it as hard as possible for him, okay?" First Senzei, then you. Then Hesseth and me in the Terata's realm. He'll try it again, you can bet your undead soul on that. Let's make it as hard as possible for him, okay?"

He glared at the key, but finally took it from Damien's hand. "I'll a.s.sess the danger myself," he growled. "If the place seems safe ... I'll consider it."

"Good enough." He stood back, giving Tarrant room to exit. At least one thing had gone right tonight; he had feared Tarrant wouldn't take the key at all. G.o.d d.a.m.n him for his stubborn, pigheaded independence.

When the Hunter was gone, he went to the icebox, pulled out a fresh bottle of ale, and opened it with a sigh. Iezu and Unnamed demons, sadism and vengeance ... each separate thing was terrifying in its own right, and he had to deal with them all at once. Yet those threats paled to insignificance in the face of an even more daunting challenge, and he grimaced as he swallowed the cold ale, dreading it with all his heart and soul.

How the h.e.l.l h.e.l.l were they going to deal with the Patriarch? were they going to deal with the Patriarch?

Nine.

The lobby of the Hotel Paradisio was a study in conspicuous consumption, and an effective one at that. While Narilka was critical of its aesthetic approach-too gilded for her taste, too discordant, the artificially aged paint of the ceiling murals at odds with the gleaming fresh quake-wards that guarded the entrance-there was no denying that its message came through loud and clear. of the Hotel Paradisio was a study in conspicuous consumption, and an effective one at that. While Narilka was critical of its aesthetic approach-too gilded for her taste, too discordant, the artificially aged paint of the ceiling murals at odds with the gleaming fresh quake-wards that guarded the entrance-there was no denying that its message came through loud and clear. Enter here, all ye who can afford it. And as for the rest of you, back to the streets. Enter here, all ye who can afford it. And as for the rest of you, back to the streets. She was glad that she had once delivered a commissioned necklace to one of the luxury suites here, and thus could find her way about without having to ask for a.s.sistance; the check-in staff was cold to mere trades-men. She was glad that she had once delivered a commissioned necklace to one of the luxury suites here, and thus could find her way about without having to ask for a.s.sistance; the check-in staff was cold to mere trades-men.

She traversed two halls and a short flight of stairs, all carpeted in velvet. After that came what she sought: a door, and a number. Suite 5-A. She stared at the letters-neatly engraved on a flamboyant golden plaque-and suddenly wondered what the h.e.l.l she was doing here. What did she think was going to happen? What did she want want to happen? She nearly turned around and started home then and there, but the antic.i.p.ation of Gresham's certain scorn kept her from doing so. to happen? She nearly turned around and started home then and there, but the antic.i.p.ation of Gresham's certain scorn kept her from doing so. What's the matter? What's the matter? he would demand. he would demand. Lose your nerve? Lose your nerve? And after he had tried so hard to talk her out of coming here in the first place! And after he had tried so hard to talk her out of coming here in the first place!

But Andrys Tarrant's haunted face could not be banished from memory so easily, nor his eerie likeness to the Hunter dismissed so casually. At last she forced herself to raise up a hand and knock on the suite door, her heart pounding. You have a legitimate errand, You have a legitimate errand, she reminded herself. she reminded herself. He'll respect that, if nothing else. He'll respect that, if nothing else. Again she tried, but there was no response. What if he wasn't in? That was a real possibility, but not one she had prepared herself to face. Would she have to come back later and do this all over again? Again she tried, but there was no response. What if he wasn't in? That was a real possibility, but not one she had prepared herself to face. Would she have to come back later and do this all over again?

"You're gonna have to hit harder than that, honey." The voice came from a uniformed maid several doors down the hallway. A heavyset woman, middle-aged, she grinned broadly as she told her, "They were up till all hours, that lot." When she saw Narilka hesitate, she urged, "Go ahead, hit it like you mean it."

She drew in a deep breath and did as the woman suggested. The sharp blows resounded in the hallway, and she half-expected some other lodger to appear to investigate. But long seconds pa.s.sed and there was still no response. She knocked again, even harder. This time there was a shuffling sound from within the suite and murmurs of what might have been a human voice. She stepped back, wishing she could still the wild beating of her heart. Why couldn't she face this man calmly?

After a moment the ornate handle turned and the heavy door swung open. "I thought I ordered-" Andrys Tarrant began. And then he saw her-saw who she was-and all speech left him. For a moment he just stared at her, his green eyes wide with astonishment. It was clear that she was the last person in the world he had ever expected to find on his doorstep.

At last he whispered hoa.r.s.ely, "Mes Lessing."

He was dressed in a loose white shirt and crumpled pants, and had obviously just rolled out of bed. His golden-brown hair was tangled about his head, his eyes faintly bloodshot. He blinked heavily and drew in a deep breath; he was clearly struggling to compose himself. "I didn't ... I' m sorry ... I thought it was breakfast."

She glanced toward the hall window with a smile, acknowledging the fading sunlight. "Little late for that, isn't it?"

He brushed the hair back from his face with a hand that seemed to tremble slightly; a lock of hair fell back across his eyes as soon as he released it. "I had a late night," he managed. Then a smile flitted across his face: awkward, self-conscious, but sparked with genuine humor. "Or maybe I should say, a late morning. I didn't expect company today, that's for sure." Least of all you, Least of all you, his expression seemed to say. For a moment she wondered if she shouldn't make some apology for disturbing him and just give him the item he had left in the shop, so that she could beat a hasty retreat. It seemed a more merciful course for both of them. But then he stepped back, giving her room to enter. "Come in. Please." his expression seemed to say. For a moment she wondered if she shouldn't make some apology for disturbing him and just give him the item he had left in the shop, so that she could beat a hasty retreat. It seemed a more merciful course for both of them. But then he stepped back, giving her room to enter. "Come in. Please."

She did so, acutely aware of his closeness as she pa.s.sed by him. "If this is a bad time-"

"Not at all. Really." He closed the door gently behind her; she barely heard the latch snap shut. "We played late, that's all. I should have been up hours ago." He dared to meet her eyes then, and it seemed to her he hesitated. "Forgive my poor manners. If I'd thought it was you at the door ..."

The words faded into silence. He brushed awkwardly at his crumpled attire, ran his hand again through his mussed hair; he was clearly not accustomed to receiving women in such a disordered state. "I'm hardly dressed for company," he dared.

Despite herself she smiled. "It's my fault. I should have let you know I was coming. If you'd like to change ..." Why did his awkward vanity attract rather than repel her? So many other men with similar qualities had done just the opposite. "I can wait."

He brightened visibly at the suggestion. "If you're sure you don't mind."

"I'm sure," she a.s.sured him.

She was offering him more than a minute in which to change his clothing, she knew that. She was giving him time to adjust to her presence, a few precious moments of privacy in which to compose himself. And she'd be giving herself the same thing, too. She wondered which of them needed it more.

"I'll just be a minute," he told her. "I promise."

His bedroom was apparently at the far side of the parlor; he made his way there hurriedly, awkwardly, clearly conscious of her gaze upon him. Not until he was safely inside, with the door shut behind him, did she dare to draw in a deep breath and try to relax. Infinitely grateful that circ.u.mstances had gifted her with a minute in which to do so.

She looked about at the apartment he had chosen, a master suite in one of the city's most expensive hotels. The parlor was as lavish as the lobby had been, but infinitely more tasteful. It was decorated in the Revivalist style: high vaulted ceiling, polished stone floor with finely patterned rugs, slender windows with stained-gla.s.s caps. The furniture had been chosen to match that style, all except for half a dozen gilt chairs that were gathered around a table at one end of the room. Those were lighter and more graceful in form than the rest of the decor, and were clearly inspired by a later period; the stylistic mismatch seemed jarring to her, but she doubted that the hotel's guests would be sensitive enough to notice it. There were cards strewn across the table and two dozen bottles of various sizes on and about it. Drawing closer, she saw piles of wooden chips set before two places, others scattered across the silken tablecloth. There were several bottles on the floor as well, and one bright red thing that winked at her from underneath a chair. She leaned down to see what it was, then picked it up. A woman's shoe: high-heeled, velvet covered, smelling faintly of wine. Holding it in her hand, imagining its owner, she felt suddenly faint. What am I doing here? What do I know about this man? What am I doing here? What do I know about this man? She tried to put the shoe down, but her hand wouldn't release it. She tried to put the shoe down, but her hand wouldn't release it. This isn't my world. This isn't my world.

"I bought that for two hundred, so she could stay in the game."

It was Andrys, dressed now. He walked toward her with an easy grace, as if his confidence had been restored along with his attire. Gently he took the shoe from her and placed it on the table, his fingers brushing hers as he did so; the touch left fire in its wake. "I'd have gotten the other one, too, if her luck hadn't changed for the better."

He had put on a sleeveless jacket, black velveteen with narrow bands of dull gold trim; it fit him tightly, a deliberate contrast to the flowing white sleeves which accentuated his shoulders. In such attire, with his golden-brown hair gleaming, his green eyes alive with flirtatious energy ... no woman could resist him, Narilka thought. Least of all she, who had so little practice in such things.

"How was your luck?" she managed.

He grinned. "Pretty good, until about three a.m. After that ... it's all kind of hazy." He ran a hand through his hair again, as if trying to force it back into place; it fell back in his eyes as soon as he released it. "So what brings you here, to this den of iniquity? I can hardly believe I made such a good impression the last time we met."

She managed to look away from him long enough to find the object she had brought for him; drawing it forth from her shoulder bag she explained, "You left this at the shop." Rolled canvas, nearly two feet in length: she held it out to him, an offering. "Gresham was going to mail it, but parcel service is pretty slow around here; I thought you might need it sooner than that."

He didn't take it. He didn't respond. For a moment he just stared at the rolled-up canvas with an odd look on his face, as though it were the last thing in the world he wanted to see. At last he said, in a voice that was strangely distant, "Did you look at it?"

She shook her head.

With a sigh he shut his eyes. "I thought I might have lost it on the street. I made myself go back and search, but there was no sign of it. I think I was ... relieved." He put his hand on the roll of canvas but didn't take it from her; his hand was so close to hers that she could feel its heat. "I guess I owe you an explanation" he said quietly. The words were clearly hard for him. "That other day, in your shop-"

Someone knocked on the door then, hard; the sharp noise made Narilka jump.

"Room service," he muttered. He went to answer it. She followed more slowly, the canvas roll still in her hand. What was inside it, that upset him so greatly? It had taken all her self-control not to look at it there in the shop, when she had found it, but she'd wanted to respect his privacy. Now a part of her regretted that choice.

Andrys opened the door, and a uniformed hotel employee wheeled a small cart into the room. When he was done Andrys reached into his jacket pocket for a suitable tip, then spilled coins into the man's hand without even checking their value. What was such small change to him? His manner made it clear that he expected the servant to withdraw immediately, and the man was quick to obey. The tray he had brought in was neatly laid out with breakfast, Narilka observed, each item in its place, each accessory expensive: toast and pancakes on a silver tray, coffee in an engraved carafe, slices of pale fruit and some nondescript cereal in bowls of translucent china. All of it balanced on a fussy little cart that suited the hotel's lobby better than it did this sleek Revivalist chamber.

Avoiding her eyes, Andrys studied the hotel's offering. At last he shrugged. "It seemed a lot more appetizing when I ordered it yesterday." He lifted the coffee cup and studied it intently, as though its rim harbored some great secret. Refusing to look at her. Finally he put it down, and after a long and awkward silence dared, "Have you eaten?"

The question startled her. "I'm sorry?"