[Coldfire 03] Crown Of Shadows by C. S. Friedman

Author:C. S. Friedman
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: Fantasy - General, Science Fiction & Fantasy, Fantasy fiction, Fiction - Fantasy, Fiction, Fantasy, American, General, Good and evil
ISBN: 9780886777173
Publisher: Daw Books Inc.
Published: 1996-08-01T04:00:00+00:00

Twenty-six

It was nearly dawn. The city's central square was all but deserted, its myriad muggers banished by the growing light, its hidden lovers long since gone to bed. At its far end the great cathedral glowed with soft brilliance, its smooth white surface as fluid and ethereal as a dream.

Damien stood for some time, just staring at it, not thinking or planning or even fearing ... just being. Drinking in the human hopes that had polished the ancient stone, the soft music of faith that answered every whisper of breeze. Then, as Erna's white sun rose from the horizon, he climbed up the stairs and rapped softly upon the door, alerting those within to his presence. After a moment he heard footsteps approach and a bolt was withdrawn along one of the smaller doors; he stood before it as it was opened, presenting himself for inspection.

"Reverend Vryce." It was one of the Church's acolytes, working off his required service hours as night guard. A thin and gangly teenager, he seemed strangely familiar to Damien. "Do you have business here?" Ah, yes. A face out of memory. One of the dozen lads whom the Patriarch had assigned to him as a student, several eternities ago when he had first come to Jaggonath. His fledgling sorcerers.

He nodded in what he hoped was a reassuring manner. "I came to pray." The boy looked considerably relieved, and stood aside to let him enter. What did you think, that I would ask you to rouse your Patriarch near dawn so I could discuss sorcery with him? Then

he looked at the boy's young face and thought soberly, You did think exactly that, didn't you?

"I won't be long," he promised.

The sanctuary was empty, as he had hoped. The night crew had finished its cleaning and retired long ago. His footsteps echoed eerily in the empty space as he approached the altar. A familiar path. A familiar focus.

The altar. There was nothing on it to worship, really, as there would be on a pagan altar. The Prophet had dreamed of a Church without such symbols, in which the center of worship would be something greater than a silk-clad table, something less solid and more inspiring than a block of earthly matter. But Gerald Tarrant had lost that battle, like so many others. The children of Earth expected an altar, and their descendants did likewise. The baggage of humanity's Terran inheritance was not to be discarded so lightly.

He knelt before the ancient symbol of faith, feeling the vast emptiness gathering around him as he shut his eyes, preparing his soul. He wished that any words could ease the tightness in his chest, or dull the sharp point of his despair. He wished mere prayer had that kind of power.

God, he prayed, / have loved You and served You all my life. Your Law gave meaning to my existence. Your Dream gave me purpose. In Your service I grew to manhood, measuring myself against Your eternal ideals, striving to set standards for myself that would please You.

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