Authors: Marion Zimmer Bradley
Ghostlight (23 page)
Thorne Blackburn.
A ghost out of the past. A man with the wiry whipcord body of a generation past, before megavitamins, before jogging, before personal trainers. Whether ghost or living man Truth did not know, but she did know that the retreating figure was no one she'd seen yet at Shadow's Gate.
Funny. He's shorter than I thought he would be
, Truth thought, choking back the bubble of perverse laughter rising in her chest. No point in wakening Irene nowâif she were asleep.
, Truth thought, choking back the bubble of perverse laughter rising in her chest. No point in wakening Irene nowâif she were asleep.
What a tangled web this wasâeven with nobody trying to deceive anyone. She could just imagine Julian's reaction if she reported seeing Thorne Blackburn walking the halls at Shadow's Gate. It would be about what hers would have been a week ago.
What a muddle
, Truth thought again, and turned back to her room.
, Truth thought again, and turned back to her room.
When she opened the door she saw, with resignation, that someone had been here while she was goneâagain. The books she'd brought from the library and left in a jumbled heap on top of the bed were neatly piled on the desk, and her notebook was open on top of the pile. At least whoever'd rousted her this time had been tidy about it.
She locked the door behind her, although by now
there hardly seemed any point, and walked over to the desk. Her notebook was open to a page of biographical notes about Thorne, and was written across in the raking script she remembered from the photo albums.
there hardly seemed any point, and walked over to the desk. Her notebook was open to a page of biographical notes about Thorne, and was written across in the raking script she remembered from the photo albums.
“Lies, all lies. But so is truth, Truth.”
It was meant for Blackburn's handwriting, and at the moment she was willing to take it as such, impossible as that was. If real, this writing was one more reason to investigate. If someone had faked itâ
why
?
why
?
Â
Her body trembled with unshed tension as Truth put on her pajamas and got into bed, but she had no intention, now, of sleeping, and risking what she would find in dreams. She wrote in her journal until her eyes burned, meticulously noting and cataloging impressions, describing the hauntings with clinical detachment: the vortex in the library, Light's apparent “channeling” of Thorne, Truth's own sighting of him in the hall. She was a scientist. She would not theorize in advance of her data.
She scrupulously indicated on each what the margin for error, misapprehension, or simple mistake was. Except in the last caseâby midnight Truth hadn't felt herself to be a very reliable witnessânone.
A hauntingâor, in the language of her profession, a Paranormal Event: something at the reality of which the mundane world scoffed as much as Truth herself scoffed at magick. But Truth, who had proceeded not by faith, but by works until now, did “believe” in paranormal phenomena, and knew it to represent a danger that these “magicians” were not taking seriously.
Truth shook her head in weary amusement. Julian thought he could control whatever the house planned to throw at him with a few spells and incantations, just like an ancient pagan throwing virgins into the volcano in hope of a sympathetic outcomeâand with about as much effect.
Assuming, of course, she was right. But there could be no other explanationâor else her entire life was built on error.
She set her notebooks aside and turned to the books she had brought back from the library. Immersed in the early history of Shadowkill, she read through the night until the sun was well risen.
Â
In the unforgiving morning light, Truth studied her reflection in the mirror. Her face was pale with exhaustion and lack of sleep, her eyes made more brilliant by the dark purple shadows beneath them. Well, so be it. She'd had white nights before, and survived them. She'd be fine today as long as she didn't have to do anything complicatedâdrive, for example.
Finding that the bathroom did not, after all, include a shower, Truth took a quick sponge bath rather than running a tub, using the cold water to further wake herself up. No matter what came dragging its chains around the bedroom tonight, she was going to have to get some sleep, or else admit to defeat at the hands of a bit of boiled beef, a crumb of underdone potatoâto borrow a phrase from Charles Dickens.
She dressed quickly in khakis and a warm roll-neck sweater; a little informal, but she'd packed for crawling around dusty archives, not hobnobbing with folk on Julian's level. Well, maybe she'd walk into Shadowkill this morning and pick up a few things to spruce up her wardrobe. She doubted she'd be good for much in the realms of Higher Thought. All she planned for now was to check on Light and then brave the dining room in search of morning coffee, and see how things went from there.
But when she went up to Light's third-floor room, it was empty.
“She's gone with Julian,” Irene said, looking in, an armload of folded linen proclaiming her purpose on the third floor.
In the pitiless morning light Irene looked almost raddled, the purple-and-gold caftan she wore seeming like some sort of bizarre costume. All the lines of her face sloped downward with a combination of exhaustion and unhappiness. Irene Avalon looked mortally ill, but Truth was suddenly without time for compassion.
“Where?” Truth said sharply.
Where has he taken my sister?
Where has he taken my sister?
“They're in the Temple. Butâ”
Truth didn't stay to hear the rest.
Â
Round and round, round and downâshe was really getting quite good at navigating Shadow's Gate, she thought with desperate calmâTruth reached the ground floor, and then the strange narrow hallway that led at last to the great central courtyard of the house. She skidded to a halt and tried one of the brass sunburst knobs.
Locked. The door was locked.
“Julian! Open up!”
Truth hammered on the door, reckless of the consequences of disrupting a session Julian might be holding with Lightâbut Julian
knew
Light was fragile, knew she'd been ill, how
dare
he subject her to this now?
knew
Light was fragile, knew she'd been ill, how
dare
he subject her to this now?
At last, aching and out of breath, she stopped. For all the response to her pounding Truth might have been hammering on the wall of a house six counties away. She leaned against the wall, rubbing her bruised hand and panting. Someone somewhere in this mausoleum must have a keyâand she was going to get it.
The first stop in her search was the dining room. Ellis, she was sure, would have the key, even if he'd had to steal his own copy. But when she reached there, the solitary figure taking his ease was Michael, not Ellis.
“Where's Ellis?” Truth demanded tersely. “I've got to get into the Temple.”
Michael was dressed, as always, with the odd formality Truth had first noticed in him: even at breakfast in
his own place he wore his dark suit and silk tie. But Michael's clothes were not an extension of his power, as Julian's were. Michael wore his garments as if they were odd native dress, and he the patrician emissary of a great empire.
his own place he wore his dark suit and silk tie. But Michael's clothes were not an extension of his power, as Julian's were. Michael wore his garments as if they were odd native dress, and he the patrician emissary of a great empire.
Michael rose to his feet at her entrance, gravely courtly.
“I think he's still asleep,” he said. “Julian kept them very late last night, and Ellis has a particularly elaborate part to play in their ritual. Truth, what's wrong? You're white as a sheet.” He took a step toward her.
“I have to get into the Temple,” Truth repeated with dogged desperation. “Julian has Light in there, andâ”
She stopped when she saw the expression on Michael's face.
“Light in the Temple? She isn't in there,” Michael said, surprised. “Julian's taken her on a drive in the country. You just missed them; Julian drove off about fifteen minutes ago. They'reâ”
“Damn itâ” Truth's voice cracked with the fury of her battered emotions. “Which one of you am I supposed to believe? Irene told me they were in the Templeâand the Temple's locked!”
Michael regarded her almost with pity. “I would not lie to you, ever, least of all about Light. Perhaps they did go there for a minute or so, but I promise you I saw them drive away just as I have told you. And Julian always keeps the Temple locked, when they are not in it.” He drew out the chair beside his own at the table and resumed his seat, his dark eyes on her face, watching her.
Truth sank slowly into the offered chair, already made ashamed of her outburst of violent emotion by Michael's quiet reason. It was true she had a right to be concerned over Light's welfare, but to fly off the handle like thatâ
“Tell me what happened last night,” Michael said. Truth stared at him blankly, and Michael pushed the thermal
carafe toward her. Truth found solace in the homely routine of pouring her morning coffee and the feel of the warm china of the cup between her hands. The first sip completed the restoration of her self-command.
carafe toward her. Truth found solace in the homely routine of pouring her morning coffee and the feel of the warm china of the cup between her hands. The first sip completed the restoration of her self-command.
Self-control. That's what Shadow's Gate destroys first. And then all the rest.
Haltingly at first, then more smoothly as remembered anger warmed her, Truth told Michael about the vortex in the Blackburn Library and Light's collapse.
“âand when I told him I wanted to get it investigated, he refused. At first,” she hastily amended. “But I can't do it all by myself! And Julian has to understand that phenomena like this are
serious
; he's going to have to find someone other than Light if he wants to play Sacred Theater games. He can't use her any moreânot after that.”
serious
; he's going to have to find someone other than Light if he wants to play Sacred Theater games. He can't use her any moreânot after that.”
“But you're wrong, Truth,” Michael told her somberly. “It is just that sort of demonstration that convinces Julian that he is on the right track and must continue with his workâwith Light.”
As if he had said nothing so dramatic, Michael pushed the basket of warm breads toward Truth. The jam pots glittered in the sunlight, their contents tourmaline and amber and undying gold.
“He's wrong,” Truth said simply, without emotion. She reached for a roll and considered her own words. They sounded odd, somehow. “You're wrong,” she amended conscientiously. “Julian's aâhe wouldn't do anything like that.”
Would he?
Would he?
Michael sighed as if the whole world's weight wearied him. “We are so seldom right when we are sure what another will or will not do. You are a scientist, Truth. Would you cease your investigations simply for your own convenience?”
“Noâbutâ”
“Neither will Julian stop. It has taken him many years
and unimaginable sacrifice to reach the point he has reached. He will not stop. He has so little time, after all.”
and unimaginable sacrifice to reach the point he has reached. He will not stop. He has so little time, after all.”
Truth frowned. Both Michael and Irene had spoken about how short the time was the night before. But for a man with Julian's resourcesâor apparent resourcesâthis made no sense. If Julian Pilgrim was, indeed, what he seemed â¦
“Why? Why is his time short?”
Michael smiled, making her embarrassed for her Gothic fancies. “Simply because the Opening of the Gate that he attempts is not something he can do alone. It requires a minimum of seven people, and more, so I understand, would be better. And in addition to a working trance medium, Blackburn's conception also requires a, ah, Hierolator,” Michael said delicately.
Truth had only the vaguest idea, even now, of what the Hierolator'sâthe Sacred Concubine'sâplace in the Blackburn rituals might be, but she knew it was Fiona's role. She felt a distant pulse of anger, as if experiencing the emotions rightfully belonging to another.
“It requires seven people,” Truth repeated dutifully. She told over the names in her mind: Gareth, Donner, Caradoc, Hereward, and the rest. “But counting himself he has nine.”
“For how long?” Michael said. “Magickal alliances are by their nature ephemeral. Julian holds these people here by the force of his will.”
And by paying the bills
, Truth thought derisively, but she could see Michael's point. Julian had no real authority, temporal or spiritual, over his fellow acolytes of the Circle of Truth. What kept them with him was hope of magickal resultsâor possibly of more material gains.
, Truth thought derisively, but she could see Michael's point. Julian had no real authority, temporal or spiritual, over his fellow acolytes of the Circle of Truth. What kept them with him was hope of magickal resultsâor possibly of more material gains.
“He must act soon,” Michael said. “He has said he will make his attempt at Hallows; I believe him. The danger to you will end with the sunrise ⦠.”
“Oh, Michael, not that again,” Truth said wearily.
“What do you think Julian's going to doâsacrifice me to the Great God Pan? I think I'm a better judge of character than that.”
“What do you think Julian's going to doâsacrifice me to the Great God Pan? I think I'm a better judge of character than that.”
“I have never said that Julian was your danger,” Michael reminded her, and Truth blushed at her own presumption. “The danger to you will come from knowledge. If you learn what I fear you will learn if you stay here, you can never go back to your old existence, never know its peace and simple joys.”
“What makes you think I have any?” Truth blurted, and the self-exposure of that naked statement made the color rise in her cheeks again. She'd as good as told him that her life was empty, that there was nothing in it she would fight for.
Because all her life, Truth now realized, had been spent fighting
against
, in a blind headlong resistance that left her no time for self-knowledge.
against
, in a blind headlong resistance that left her no time for self-knowledge.
“I mean, if it's so dangerous, why not tell me about it, so I can decide whether or not to leave,” she added in a rush, to cover her feelings. “This isn't eighteenth-century Ingolstadt, Michaelâthere is
nothing
âMan was not meant to know,' and all of us live, every day, with horrors beyond imagining. Famine, warâ” She stopped, gesturing with her half-full coffee cup. “What could be scarier than AIDS? Or a drive-by shooting?”
nothing
âMan was not meant to know,' and all of us live, every day, with horrors beyond imagining. Famine, warâ” She stopped, gesturing with her half-full coffee cup. “What could be scarier than AIDS? Or a drive-by shooting?”
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