Bloodstone (18 page)

“And when I do, I keep them, lady. I do not lie.”

“I know that!” she said, her voice rising. “You are the Jerusalem Man! Oh, Christ …”

“Just tell me what you want,” he urged her.

“I will tell you what I need from you, Shannow. You will think I am mad, but you must hear me out. You promise that?” He nodded, and for a moment she said nothing. Then she looked directly into his eyes. “All right. I want you to bring Sam back from the dead.”

He stared at her in silence.

“It is not as crazy as it sounds,” Amaziga went on. “Trust me on that, Shannow. The past, the present, and the future all coexist, and we can visit them. You know that already, because Pendarric’s legions crossed the vault of time to invade our lands. They crossed twelve thousand years. It can be done.”

“But Sam is dead, woman!”

“Can you think only in straight lines?” she stormed. “Supposing you were to go back into the past and prevent them from killing him?”

“But I didn’t. I do not understand the principles behind such journeys, but I do know that Sam Archer died, because that is what happened. If I went back and changed that, then it would already have happened and we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

Suddenly she laughed and clapped her hands. “Bravo, Shannow. At last a little imagination! Good. Then think on this: If I journeyed back into the past and shot your father before he met your mother and then returned here, would I be alone? Would you have ceased to exist?”

“One would suppose so,” he said.

“No,” she said triumphantly. “You would still be here. That is the great discovery.”

“And how would I be here without having had a father?”

“There are infinite universes existing alongside our own, perhaps in the same space. Infinite. Without number, in other words. There are thousands of Jon Shannows, perhaps millions. When we step through the ancient gateways, we cross into parallel universes. Some are identical to our own, some fractionally different. With an infinite number it means that anything the mind can conceive
must
exist somewhere. So somewhere Sam Archer did not die in Castlemine. You see what I am saying?”

“I hear the words, lady. Understanding is something else entirely.”

“Think of it in terms of the grains of sand in a desert. No two are exactly identical. The odds against finding twin grains would be, say, a hundred million to one. But then, the number of grains is finite. It may be thirty trillion. But supposing there was no limit to the number of grains? Then a hundred million to one would be small odds. And within infinity there would be an infinite number of twins. That is a fact of life within the multiverse. I know. I have seen it.”

Shannow finished his coffee. “So you are saying that in some world, somewhere, there is a Sam Archer waiting to be taken to Castlemine? Yes?”

“Exactly.”

“Then why do you not go back and find him? Why is it necessary to send a messenger?”

Amaziga moved to the jug and refilled the mugs. This time Shannow sipped the brew appreciatively. She sat down and leaned back in the leather chair. “I did go back,” she said, “and I found Sam and brought him home. We lived together here for almost a year.”

“He died?”

She shook her head. “I made a mistake. I told him everything, and one morning he was gone, searching for what he termed
his
own life. What he didn’t know was that I was already pregnant with Gareth. Perhaps that would have changed his mind. I don’t know. But this time I’ll get it right, Shannow. With your help.”

“Your son must be around twenty years old. How is it you have waited this long to try again?”

Amaziga sighed. “He is eighteen. It took me two years to find Sam again, and even in that I was lucky. I have spent the last decade in research, studying clairvoyance and mysticism. It came to me that clairvoyants cannot
see
the future, for it does not exist yet. What they can do is to glimpse other
identical
worlds, which is why some of their visions are so ludicrously wrong. They see a future that exists on another world and predict that it will happen here. But all kinds of events can change the possible futures. Finally I found a man whose powers were incredible. He lived in a place called Sedona—one of the most beautiful lands I have ever seen, red rock buttes set in a magnificent desert. For a time I lived with him. I used my Sipstrassi Stones to duplicate his powers and imprint them on a machine.” She stood and walked to the black-faced box on the desk by the wall. “This machine. It resembles a computer, but it is very special.” Amaziga pressed a button, and the screen flickered to life, becoming the face of a handsome man with red-gold hair and eyes of startling blue.

“Welcome home, Amaziga,” it said, the voice low and smooth and infinitely human. “I see you found the man you were seeking.”

“Yes, Lucas. This is Jon Shannow.”

Shannow rose and approached the box. “You trapped the man in there?” he said, horrified.

“No, not the man. He died. I was away on research, and he collapsed with a heart attack. Lucas is a creation that holds all the man’s memories. But he is also something different. He is self-aware in his own right. He operates as a kind of time-scope, using both the power of Sipstrassi and the magic of the ancient gateways. Through his talent we can view alternative worlds. Show him, Lucas.”

“What would you like to see, Mr. Shannow?” asked Lucas.

He wanted to say “Jerusalem,” but he could not. Shannow hesitated. “You choose,” he told the machine.

The face disappeared, and Shannow found himself staring at a city on a hill, a great temple at the center. The sky above
was deep blue, and the sun shone with unbearable brightness. A man was standing outside the temple, arms raised, and a great crowd was listening to him; he was dressed in golden armor with a burnished helm on his head. Sounds came from the machine, a language Shannow did not know, but the armored man’s voice was low and melodious. Lucas’s voice cut in: “The man is Solomon, and he is consecrating the great temple of Jerusalem.” The scene faded and was replaced instantly by another; this time the city was in ruins, and a dark-bearded figure stood brooding over the broken stones. Again Lucas cut in: “This is the king of the Assyrians. He has destroyed the city. Solomon was slain in a great battle. There is, as you can see, no temple. In this world he failed. Do you wish to see other variations?”

“No,” said Shannow. “Show me the Sam Archer you wish me to find.”

The screen flickered, and Shannow saw a mountainside and a collection of tents. Several people were gathering wood. One of them was the tall, broad-shouldered man he remembered so well: Sam Archer, archaeologist and Guardian. He had a rifle looped over his shoulder and was standing on a cliff edge, staring down over a plain. On the plain was an army.

“The day following this scene,” said Lucas, “the army sweeps into the mountains, killing everyone.”

“What war is it?”

“It is the Hellborn. They have conquered and are now sweeping away the last remnants of the defeated army.”

The screen changed once more, becoming the handsome face with the clear blue eyes. “Do I exist in this world?” asked Shannow.

“You did, as a farmer. You were killed in the first invasion. Sam Archer did not know you.”

“Who rules the Hellborn? Sarento? Welby?”

“Neither. The Bloodstone rules.”

“Someone must control it, surely.”

“No, Shannow,” said Amaziga. “In this world the Bloodstone lives. Sarento drew it into himself and in doing so created
a demon with awesome powers. Thousands have died since to feed the Bloodstone.”

“Can it be killed?”

“No,” said Lucas. “It is impervious to shot or shell and can create a field around itself of immense force. The Sword of God could have destroyed it, but in this world there is no missile waiting.”

“The Bloodstone is not your problem, Shannow,” put in Amaziga. “All I want is for you to rescue Sam and bring him back. Will you do it?”

“I have a problem,” he said.

“Yes, with your memory. I can help you with that. But only when you get back.”

“Why wait?”

She hesitated before answering. “I will tell you the truth and ask you to accept it. You would not be the same man if I returned your memory to you. And the man you will become—though more acceptable to me—would have less chance of success. Will you take that on trust?”

Shannow sat silently, his pale gaze locked to her dark eyes.

“You need Shannow the killer.”

“Yes,” she whispered.

He nodded. “It lessens us both.”

“I know,” she answered, her eyes downcast.

The main street of Purity was bustling with people as Nestor and Clem rode in; miners, their weekend pay burning holes in their pockets, were heading for the taverns and gambling houses, while the locals moved along packed sidewalks to restaurants and eating houses. Shops and stores were still open even though dusk was long since past, and three lamplighters were moving along the street carrying ladders and tapers. Behind them, in double lines, the huge oil lamps gave off a yellow glow that made the mud of the main street shine as if it were streaked with gold.

Nestor had never been to Purity, though he had heard that the silver mines had brought great prosperity to the community.
The air stank of smoke and sulfur, and music was playing all along the street, discordant and brash as many melodies vied for the ear.

“Let’s get a drink,” shouted Clem. “My throat feels like I’m carrying half the desert caked around it.” Nestor nodded in reply, and they drew up outside a large tavern with ornate stained-glass windows. Some twenty horses were hitched to the rail, and Nestor had difficulty finding a place to leave their mounts. Clem ducked under the rail and strode into the tavern. Inside there were gaming tables and a long bar served by five barmen. A band was playing brass instruments, a pianist accompanying them. Above the gaming hall a gallery ran around the room, and Nestor saw gaudily dressed women moving along it, arm in arm with miners or local men. The boy frowned. Such behavior was immoral, and it surprised him that any Deacon township would tolerate such displays.

Clem eased his way to the bar and ordered two beers. Nestor did not like the taste of beer but said nothing as the glass was pushed toward him.

The noise in the tavern was deafening, and Nestor drank in uncomfortable silence. What pleasure, he wondered, can men draw from these places? He wandered across to a card table where men were pushing Barta notes into the center of the table. He shook his head. Why work all week and then throw your money away in a single night? It was incomprehensible.

Nestor turned away and collided with a burly man carrying a pint of beer. The liquid splashed down the man’s shirt, and the glass fell from his grasp to shatter on the sawdust-strewn floor.

“You clumsy bastard!” the man shouted.

“I’m sorry. Let me buy you another.”

A fist hit Nestor square in the face, hurling him back over a card table, which toppled, spilling Barta notes to the floor. Nestor rolled and tried to come upright but, dizzy, stumbled back to his knees. A booted foot cracked into his side, and he rolled away from the blow but came up against a table leg. The man reached down and dragged him up by the lapels of his jacket.

“That will be enough,” Nestor heard Clem Steiner say.

The man glanced around. “It will be enough when I say it is. Not before,” retorted his attacker.

“Let him go or I’ll kill you,” said Clem.

The music had ceased when Nestor had been struck, but now the silence was almost unbearable. Slowly the man let him go, then pushed him away. He turned toward Clem, his hand hovering over the holstered gun at his hip. “You’ll kill me, dung breath? You know who I am?”

“I know you’re a lardbelly with all the speed of a sick turtle,” Clem said with an easy smile. “So before you make an attempt to pull that pistol, I should call on what friends you have to stand beside you.”

The man swore and made a grab for the gun, but even as his hand closed on the butt, he found himself staring down the barrel of Clem’s nickel-plated revolver. Clem walked forward until the barrel rested on the man’s forehead. “How did anyone as slow as you live to get so ugly?” he asked. As he finished speaking, he stepped forward and brought his knee up hard into the other’s groin. With a groan the man slumped forward, and Clem’s pistol landed a sickening blow to the back of his neck. He hit the floor face first and did not move.

“Friendly place,” said Clem, holstering the pistol. “You finished fooling around, Nestor?”

The boy nodded glumly. “Then let’s find somewhere to eat,” said Clem, clapping the younger man on the shoulder.

Nestor stumbled forward, still dizzy, and Clem caught him. “By God, boy, you are a trouble to be around.”

An elderly man approached them. “Son, take a little advice and leave Purity. Sachs won’t forget that beating. He’ll be looking for you.”

“Where’s the best eating house in town?” Clem countered.

“The Little Marie. Two blocks down toward the south. On the right.”

“Well, when he wakes up, you tell him where I’ve gone. And tell him to bring his own shovel. I’ll bury him where he lands.”

Clem steered Nestor out of the tavern and half lifted him to the saddle. “Cling on there, boy,” he said. “The pain’ll pass.”

“Yes, sir,” mumbled Nestor. Clem mounted and led Nestor north. “Ain’t we going the wrong way, sir?”

Clem just chuckled. Several blocks farther along the street they came to a small restaurant with a painted sign proclaiming “The Unity Restaurant.” “This will do,” said Clem. “How are you feeling?”

“Like a horse walked over me.”

“You’ll survive. Let’s eat.”

The restaurant boasted just five tables, only one of which was occupied. The diner was a tall man wearing the gray shield shirt of a Crusader. Clem hung his hat on a rack by the door and walked to a table. A slender waitress with honey-blond hair approached him. “We got steak. We got chicken. We got ham. Make your choice.”

“I can see the reason for the restaurant’s popularity,” said Clem. “I hope the food is warmer than the welcome.”