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at last spat out, “This travesty of a report? Hoping I would never learn the truth?”
    He desperately tried to think of something to say—a protest, a plea, anything—but how could he answer such a charge? When he had written his report (agonizing over each and every word, analyzing every turn of phrase a thousand times over) he had never imagined that the Patriarch would learn the truth. Never. But now he realized that he had underestimated the man. The Patriarch was a natural sorcerer, even though he refused to acknowledge the fact. It stood to reason that the fae, altering the laws of probability in response to his will, should cause him to meet up with a source of information. Damien should have seen it coming. He should have prepared....
    “You saved his life,” the Patriarch repeated. Utter condemnation, spiced with a more personal venom. “In his name you betrayed your vows, your people. And God Himself, who sits judgment on all of us! Every evil which the Hunter commits, from now until the moment of his demise, will be because of you. Every wound the Church must suffer because of his influence, it will suffer because you freed him. Because you encouraged him to endure.”
    He stepped forward, an openly aggressive move. Startled, Damien stepped back. The thick white wool of his ritual robe tangled about his ankles, an unfamiliar obstacle. About his neck the heavy gold collar of his Order pricked his skin with etched flame-points, sharp metal edges hot against the chill of his skin. Why had he worn these things? Had he thought that the regalia of his Order might shield him from the Patriarch’s anger? If so, they had failed utterly.
    “In the name of the One God,” the Patriarch pronounced, “I have been given authority over this region—and you.” He paused, giving the fact of his absolute authority a moment to sink in. “And in the name of God I now exercise it. In the name of those thousands who gave their lives to redeem this world, choosing death before corruption. In the name of the martyrs of our faith, who served the Church in its darkest hours—and never wavered in their service, though they faced more terrible trials than you or I can imagine. In their name, Reverend Sir Damien Vryce, in their most holy memory do I now divorce you from our service—”
    Fear took hold of him as he recognized the ritual. “Holy Father, no—”
    “In their name I now declare you cast out from the society of priests, and from the Orders that initiated you—”
    “Don‘t—”
    The Patriarch reached forward too quickly for Damien to respond, and his hand closed tightly about the golden collar. “—Damien Kilcannon Vryce, I hereby dismiss you from our Church and from all its Orders, now and forever.” And he pulled back, hard, with the kind of strength that only rage could conjure. Metal cut into the back of Damien’s neck as the decorative links strained to part, drawing blood as they finally gave way. The Patriarch pulled the heavy collar from him. “You are unfit for our society.” He threw the collar to the floor, and ground his foot into the delicate metalwork. “If not for any human society,” he added venomously.
    For a moment Damien just stared at the Patriarch, unable to respond. Despair overwhelmed him, and a sense of utter helplessness. What could he say now that would make a difference? The Patriarch’s authority was absolute. Even the Holy Mother, Matriarch of the west-lands, would respect and honor such a dismissal. Which meant that he was no longer a priest. Which meant in turn that he was ... nothing. Because he suddenly realized that he had no identity that was not Church-born; there was no fragment of his psyche that did not define itself according to the Prophet’s dream, the Prophet’s hierarchy.
    What could he do now? What could he be? The walls seemed to be closing in around him; the air was hard to breathe. Blood dripped from the wounds on his neck, staining his white robe