Falling Light (A Game of Shadows Novel) (17 page)

The last century had been the century of mass murder. It was the Deceiver’s century. This world had become riddled with people who had looked into the Deceiver’s eyes and lost their souls, puppets that sat in powerful places and committed his atrocities while they pretended to their families and the rest of the world that they still lived.

Sixty people didn’t sound like much, stacked up against that kind of past, the entire unimaginable, crushing weight of the Deceiver’s dead.

It might take someone with the sensitivity of a butterfly’s antenna to hear in the stories of those sixty people the soft-building crescendo of six thousand years of hatred.

But he heard it.

He rubbed at his tired eyes. His thoughts switched to Mary.

I don’t ever want to shoot a gun again
, she had said, her eyes dark with remembered horror. After craving to find her for such a crushing long time, he had suddenly become wild to get away from her.

Not because he didn’t understand, but because he did.

Each bullet took a life, and each life was a world, and Mary was a healer. She flung everything she had at each world in an attempt to save it. He knew that. He remembered that much.

But the Deceiver sat upon a mountain of bodies so high it reached the sky. If each life was a world, he was the destroyer of a cosmos. Now he was poised to slide onto the modern-day international stage in yet another grab for power. He was an addict who would do anything to get his fix. Unchecked, he would turn the earth into a charnel house.

Once long ago, Michael had been a military general in a society far removed from modern Western thought. That society had understood the essential energy of action and existence, that which flowed behind the physical realm. To bring the understanding of the Tao onto the battlefield had been to raise warfare to an art.

He had written,
If you only know yourself, but not your opponent, you may win or may lose. If you know neither yourself nor your enemy, you will always endanger yourself.

It was essential to recognize the truth of what lay behind the mask of a face, the truth of the forces that moved behind nature. Know your enemy, he had warned that long-ago people. The one who wages this war will never tire. He will always deceive.

Michael’s reason for being, his entire ageless passion, had forged into a singular purpose, and that was to bring that destroyer down.

So he fought to save innocent worlds from dying, just as Mary did in her own way. But his skill was in violence, which bore its own cost.

He needed to know Mary existed. He hungered for her healing energy, for both the wounds he created and the wounds he sustained.

But he would either win this battle by violence or die by violence. He wouldn’t stop. Not ever. Not even for the horror in her eyes as she looked at what he was, and all because each life was a world.

Irony:

Make peace
,
Astra said, when she of all people should have remembered.

That’s not what he did.

FOR A WHILE,
Mary floated in a soft darkness without dreaming.

Then she remembered that something slippery had happened, something subtle and lightning quick, and a thin, silver thread formed in front of her. In some deeply recessed part of herself, she knew the silver thread was part of a much larger tapestry than she could comprehend. It was a single shining piece in a measureless web.

Everything is connected, she realized. Everything touches something else.

When she discovered the thread, she also rediscovered curiosity. The thread widened to become a silver path, and she stepped onto it. She walked where it led her. The path was cool, quiet and filled with moonlight.

As she walked, she became aware of shadowed hedges that grew on either side of the path. The ragged tops of the hedges were higher than her head. The leaves rustled in a quiet breeze, lifting strands of her loose hair and pulling them across her face in a veil.

She ran her fingers through her hair and lifted the veil from her eyes. She wore a simple cotton shift. The night was balmy and punctuated with a gentle symphony of crickets, so she was quite comfortable to have her arms and legs bare. The worn dirt path was easy on the soles of her feet.

She came to an old, battered door in the hedge. It was locked. She pounded on the door and yanked at the latch. Something heavy swung from a chain around her neck. Surprised, she looked down to discover an antique gold key swinging on a necklace between her breasts.

She fingered the key, studying it by the moon’s pale smile, then fit it into the lock and turned it.

The door opened. She pushed it wide to discover an immense meadow filled with wildflowers. Dawn had begun to illuminate the meadow on the other side of the hedge. The rosy gold morning sun picked up lavender, red, yellow, white and blue blossoms dotting the thick green grass. Honeybees, bumblebees and hummingbirds flew from flower to flower.

Mary closed the door behind her before she began to explore the meadow.

She wasn’t sure if she should pick the flowers, so she contented herself with bending over the blossoms to discover which ones gave off the rich perfume that permeated the air. Soon her cheeks were dusted with pollen.

A golden eagle plummeted from the sky. She watched it reach into a rosebush, grasp a stem in its talons and rise into the air again. As it glided overhead it dropped the rose, which landed at her feet.

This place was giving itself to her. She picked up the rose, careful of its thorns, and walked through the meadow until she saw the edge of a dark green forest. Still curious, she walked to the far side of the meadow. As the forest came closer into view, she came upon the most enormous tree she had ever seen.

The tree was so tall it reached higher than a mountain. The top disappeared into clouds. She had never seen anything alive that was so colossal. The Eastern dragon she had called for healing would have fit in its branches. The Lake that had sung such a strange, sweet song to her could have nestled between two of its roots. She walked and walked until at last she could lean against the smallest of its roots and rest.

The tree lived, and died, and was born anew with green, growing promise. As she leaned against its root, she knew it held a secret in its strength. It was the same as the secret of the silver thread. Mary picked up one of the fallen leaves and tucked it behind one ear so that the leaf could whisper the secret to her.

A brook ribboned through the land beside the tree. She had walked for so long she had grown hot and thirsty, so she went straight to the water. It rushed in a silvery tumble over a bed of slippery rocks. She let the rose fall and watched as it floated away over the rocks. Then she scooped her hair away from her face so she could drink.

Now that she had reached the brook, she realized it tumbled down to the sea. A wide tan beach stretched just ahead, and more old, tangled forest, and a glimpse of an ancient gray wall of ivy-covered stone. It looked like the corner of a wall or a building.

She searched for a place where she could ford the tumbling water. Nearby, a wide area was shallow enough she could pick her way across.

Running water for protection, she thought.

Or perhaps she didn’t think. Perhaps the brook whispered it to her as the cold water swirled around her calves. Or the leaf that she had tucked behind her ear told her, as it murmured of the sacred green places of Earth.

On the other side of the brook, she walked along the beach and looked over the white-capped waves. She would have liked to swim and explore the water’s edges, but first she needed to discover what story the old stone building would tell her.

She picked her way through the lush, tangled growth surrounding the ruins. At last, under the shadow of a white oak, she reached an open place where she could see the building.

It was the ruins of an ancient chapel. The door and windows were long gone but their arching frames, outlined in stone, still stood. The roof had long since caved in and decayed. She could see through the open arch of doorway that gold sunlight dappled the grassy green floor.

A bird flew by in the forest, trilling madly. Inside the chapel, the air was old, silent and still. The power that filled the place sank into her bones. The place might stand in ruins but it was still holy.

Bracing herself with a slim hand on a granite arch, she took a tentative step over the debris in the doorway. As she stepped inside, intense recognition flooded her.

“I know this place,” she breathed, eyes wide.

She was familiar with every moss-covered rock in this place. In wonder, she walked along one wall and saw that underneath the tangle of ivy, each stone bore a carved inscription. Careful to avoid breaking the vines, she pulled the curtain of ivy aside and read the word on the first stone.

Marah.

The stone beside it bore the word,
Mearr
. The one underneath that read
Muire
.

Then onto the next.
Moire
,
Maryse
,
Miryam
, and on the oldest stone closest to the ground was inscribed the word
Myrrh
.

All were variations of her name.

She backed away from the chapel wall and stumbled against a waist-high black stone that was an altar. She put both hands on its pitted surface as she leaned against it for stability.

Power welled from the black stone, pouring through the fragile flesh of her hands. She felt it like the roar of an oncoming tornado as the noonday sun spilled down on her head and blinded her.

The light and dark energies connected inside of her and detonated. The power of the resulting blast knocked her . . . someplace.

She floated, light as thistledown, and collided with a handkerchief of bright orange energy, which startled a giggle out of it. It was a little wind spirit, like the lavender spirit that had helped her escape from the drones who had tried to kidnap her.

It darted out an open window, flapping and soaring in fits and spurts like a drunken butterfly. Looking around, Mary discovered that she stood at the top of the stairs that led to the loft.

She could see Astra cooking on the ground floor. She jumped, floated down the stairs and over to the counter, where Astra rolled out a thick layer of dough.

“What are you doing out of your body, miss?” Astra grunted without looking up. She took a knife and sliced the dough into thick strips. “I know you think you’ve learned a clever trick or two, but now is not the time to be wandering through the realms, not even here.”

I didn’t mean to do it
,
she protested.
It was my dream.
As Astra paused to look at her speculatively, realization dawned. She demanded,
You gave me that dream, didn’t you? What did all those images mean?

Astra cackled, her black eyes bright. “I don’t have a clue. It wasn’t my dream, it was yours. I don’t know what images you saw.” She added in a casual tone of voice, “Want to tell me what they were?”

Mary didn’t take time to analyze her instinctive reaction. All she knew was that she didn’t want Astra near her chapel.

She said quickly,
No, thanks.

“Suit yourself. Then you’ve got to be the one to figure out what it means.”

She hesitated.
How could you give me the dream if you don’t know what it was?

“All I did was to nudge you in the right direction,” the old woman said. “You said that sometimes you don’t know yourself. You had somewhere inside of you that you needed to go, and some things that you needed to realize and remember. You would have gotten there on your own eventually—you were halfway there already. I just saved you some grief and time so that we could move on to other things.”

Oh. Thank you.
The large steaming pot on the stove distracted Mary. She peered inside at the bubbling liquid, trying to determine the contents.

“It’s going to be chicken and dumplings,” Astra told her. “And you can have some when you get up.” She slapped a floury hand on the counter. “Now go back to bed!”

As Astra said the words, Mary felt a shove that sent her tumbling head over heels up the stairs. When she connected with her body, she fell again into darkness.

 • • • 

A FORMLESS TIME
later, Mary opened her eyes.

She looked around, cataloguing the details of her environment. Pleasant cool air moved through the loft, carrying with it the rich, enticing smell of chicken stew. She rolled over and looked at the open window. As she remembered her collision with the bright orange handkerchief in her dream, she smiled.

There was no part of her body that ached, or was cold, cramped, overtired, bloody, dirty, wet, beaten or bruised. It was a miracle.

Her unruly hair still felt damp but not uncomfortably so. She had a whole wide double bed to roll around in. It would take a good week of regular sleep and nutrition for her to feel fully rested, but this new reality was miles better than what she had just experienced. She wiggled her toes and rotated her ankles, and luxuriated in the simple wonder of being physically comfortable, content to rest and think.

After a while, hunger and a resurgence of curiosity drove her out of bed. Someone had left a pile of clothing just outside her door. As she sorted through the items, she found her cleaned and dried nylon panties, a baggy purple T-shirt and a gray sweat suit.

She had lost her bra back at Michael’s cabin, but she was small enough that she could get away without wearing one. Grateful for the clean clothing, she shrugged into the T-shirt, sweatpants and underwear, slipped on her socks from early that morning and left her nightgown folded on her pillow. Then she went down the stairs.

No one else was in sight. She found a pot on the stove on low simmer, a small stack of spoons and bowls beside it and a note on the kitchen counter. Astra was outside doing chores, the stew was ready, iced tea and a salad waited in the refrigerator and fools were welcome to eat whenever they awakened.

Mary felt a small pang when she read the note. Her fingers smoothed the edges of the paper. She wondered where Michael was sleeping. Had he been tempted to crawl into bed with her, or was he glad for the chance to put some distance between them after that morning?

Earlier she had been too exhausted to care about anything but getting her body horizontal as fast as she could, so she hadn’t missed him when she’d collapsed in the loft.

She missed him now, though. They had fast learned to rely on each other during the trip north. Or at least she had learned to rely on him. Already it felt strange to be apart from the visceral comfort of his big, warm body.

She helped herself to a generous meal of chicken and dumplings, salad and tea. The stew was well seasoned, starchy and delicious, perfect comfort food for people who had suffered from stress and recent injury. She couldn’t resist a second bowlful. When she finally finished, she washed her dirty dishes.

Then, driven by motives she preferred not to dissect, she explored the ground floor.

The cabin was filled with a treasure trove of carved statues and masks, stone bowls, pottery, handwoven wall hangings, dried herbs and a variety of tools.

A central fieldstone fireplace dominated the living room area. Both her and Michael’s shoes had been set on the hearth, along with the blanket that she had cut to make a makeshift poncho.

She paused to study an eighteen-inch artifact on the mantel. It was a doll constructed of sticks, scraps of cloth and a painted black-and-white face. It was an odd, compelling figure that somehow embodied both gaiety and menace. She stood on tiptoe to get a closer look.

A man said behind her, “What do you think of the Haokah?”

She turned around.

Jerry stood taller than she thought he would. He was every bit as tall as Nicholas and his grandson. She ran a professional gaze down his body. His face was still haggard but he seemed steady on his feet, and his color was good. He had pulled his gray-streaked hair back in a ponytail, and he was dressed and wearing a jacket.

Jamie stood at his grandfather’s shoulder, his youthful, handsome face lively with curiosity.