Gravelight (19 page)

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Authors: Marion Zimmer Bradley

BOOK: Gravelight
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Sinah pushed her damp hair back from her forehead; the sunlight glinted on the small bones of her wrist, the skin made shiny with sweat. She shook her head.
“It's there,” Wycherly said stubbornly, anger beginning to seep into his voice. Was she blind that she couldn't see it? Or merely playing games with him? He clenched his hand around the small linen bag in his pocket, gripping its unknown contents tightly. The disk sewn inside cut painfully into his hand.
“There … oh, it's farther down than I thought.” Sinah's voice was flat, unreadable. “But I don't see any altar.”
“You can't see it until you're there,” Wycherly said. “Go on.”
She looked back toward him, wide grey eyes beseeching, bargaining miracles. She wanted him to go with her. Wycherly leaned on his stave and gritted his teeth against the pain in his ankle. It hurt—but he'd follow her down in a minute if there were a bottle at the other end, he knew that. And she could offer him one.
“Will you stay here?” Sinah said quickly. “And … watch?”
“All right.” He spoke grudgingly.
She turned away. Wycherly watched her go, vague desires for animal comforts jostling for precedence in his mind. He knew what he wanted most, but it was amusing to play the game, and imagine what else he might want instead.
Sinah began her descent, slipping a little in her haste and catching herself against the rough brick wall. When she glanced back, the sight of Wycherly was reassuring—even if he was nearly as likely to push her into the pit as provide help. Her instincts told her that he wasn't a danger to anyone but himself, but that didn't mean he was much of a help, either.
The sense that this was something familiar was frighteningly strong. As if it were water rising around her, Sinah fought against the conviction that she'd been here before—when the building was whole, when …
When what? You don't know what, that's what!
She pushed the thought away. Down and down and down—this staircase must have been really claustrophobic when the building was whole. Sinah found herself holding her breath against the smoke of a fire that had burned to ash and cinders more than sixty years before she was born.
If you lose it here, you have no one to turn to,
she told herself brutally.
No one will help you, no one will come. Wycherly's ankle is bad
—
even if he wanted to, he couldn't get you out of here if you fell and broke something.
She reached the bottom level. It was chilly; a good fifteen degrees colder than it was on the surface, and Sinah shivered, even in the T-shirt and baseball jacket that had seemed too hot earlier. The air was full of the smell of things rotting and transforming beneath the earth—like the root cellar had been, but far stronger. It made no sense; there were no earthen walls or floor here to give off such a scent—in fact, this room was carved directly from the rock itself; a black, close-grained stone. Basalt? It looked something like slate, and something like black sandstone, but Sinah was no geologist. All she knew was that it seemed to be an unbroken stone face. Bedrock. The mountain's heart. She took a steadying breath. Wycherly remembered it as being covered with debris, but the floor was swept bare.
What are you suggesting: psychic groundskeepers from
beyond the grave? If there is magic in the world, I'm sure it has better things to do with its time!
There was nothing down here that could hurt her—an underground stream, that was all, and Wycherly was terrified of running water. She knew that, without really understanding why; he didn't think about the reason much, if were even within reach of his conscious mind. When he'd heard the sound the first time, he'd panicked, and that was what colored her perceptions now. Detoxing alcoholics weren't all that emotionally stable, after all.
And he's going to fail again, just like all the other times. Why put himself through such hell only to make it all pointless the moment he takes his next drink?
Because. That was the only answer to so many of the questions of human motivation.
Because
.
She tucked her hands into her armpits for warmth and looked longingly back at the sun above. Far above, the light flashed on Wycherly's copper hair as he moved. At least they could see each other. That was some consolation—though not if she were bitten by a snake. But any self-respecting snake would be out in the sunlight getting warm, not down here in this … pit.
Where the walls were rising up, growing higher and higher as she watched, choking her—
Sinah forced herself to inhale again deeply, to fill her lungs and empty them and fill them again, thinking of serenity, of calm oceans and sunlit glades. The oppressive sense of terror receded. She touched the bag around her neck, cautiously probing the part of her mind that seemed to have become infested with that alien consciousness. This place held no resonance for that hungry ghost, but the sense that there was something here to be learned made Sinah step warily.
Sinah had just about convinced herself that there was nothing here to fear when she saw the black altar and the gaping doorway beyond. She put her hand on the surface of the carven stone.
Hot! The stone was as hot as if it stood in direct sunlight,
and vibrated faintly as though it stood directly over some sort of mighty machinery. Sinah snatched her hand back and glared at it mistrustfully. There must be some kind of trick; the basement was in shadow; the stone could not be hot.
But she didn't even stop to investigate the runes that Wycherly said this altar stone was carved with; it was the doorway that drew her. She could hear the rushing water, cold and pure and liquid, promising peace and comfort and rest … .
Wycherly watched Sinah negotiate the slippery steps down into what (for lack of a better term) he thought of as the temple. Now that the two of them were here, he wasn't sure what good this little side trip would do Sinah in her quest to understand her family. He hadn't been able to recognize the symbols on the altar when he'd been here before, and he wasn't really even completely sure they were the same as the ones carved into the bottom of the lead box.
There were the makings of a fine ghost story here, with mysterious legacies, mute villagers, and unexplained disappearances, but the fact of the matter was that mysteries of that sort held very little interest for Wycherly. One of his psychiatrists had told him that an interest in such things was a part of the process of self-mythologizing in which people invented inexplicable events to weave a shroud of extrordinariness around their own lives. If they could say they'd been kidnapped by space aliens or were the victims of Satanic cults, they didn't have to deal with their own emptiness and disappointments. He looked around—at the blue hills in the distance, at the verdant mountain stretching away below him. He supposed he was as bad at dealing with reality as anyone else was, but he preferred to cope by drinking himself into oblivion, not by making up fairy stories. Miracles were not part of Wycherly's worldview.
He looked back toward the sanatorium. It took him a moment to focus on the deeper darkness that was the temple, and when he did, Sinah wasn't there.
He heard her scream.
The sound was thin and wavery—the sound of despair, rather than a cry for help. It galvanized Wycherly as no entreaty could have. He went down the stairs on his rump, clutching the long walking stick in his hand to avert the possibility of falling. When he reached the bottom, he levered himself to his feet again with the physical numbness of terror and hobbled quickly forward, slipping and swearing.
He didn't see her anywhere. He rounded the altar, and his last hope died—she was not behind it. Where was she? Had she gone down the other set of stairs—into the darkness?
He looked into the opening and saw a white shape moving in the dimness. His heart was a painful airless clutch in his chest, and the edge of the altar was a hard line against his back. The shape was Sinah—it was, it
had
to be—but he wasn't sure, and in that moment Wycherly realized with a wave of despairing violence that he would do anything,
anything,
if only he could never be afraid again.
“Welcome
,
Seeker—
at last.”
The voice came from behind him. Reflexively, helplessly, Wycherly looked.
A man stood facing Wycherly across the stone of the altar. He was wearing vestments of some sort; on his head he wore a gilded helmet that was like a stylized goat's head. The horns were nielloed silver, and its eyes were yellow sapphires—they glowed as if there was a flame behind them.
They glowed almost as brightly as the man's eyes.
Wycherly tried to speak, but his mouth had gone so dry that he couldn't open it. He felt a crushing pain in his chest, a nauseated disorientation, as though he were facing a madman with a loaded gun.
He
was the madman. And this was something that came from the beast—a hallucination to hold him captive while Camilla came up out of the water and destroyed him. Wycherly understood hallucinations. They had a frightening
persuasiveness, but they were intrusions into the real world. The insects, the mice, the slinking dark things, even the beast itself trespassed into an otherwise familiar world.
This was different. This all-encompassing vision had the icy authenticity of genuine truth: This was not reality, and yet it was. Behind the man who had spoken were gleaming paneled walls, inset with frosted Lalique panels crafted with odd, half-familiar designs—not the bare rock of the ruined temple. Tapestries hung between the glass insets, their woven colors bright and elemental. Torches flamed upon the walls in golden holders—the floor gleamed, richly polished and covered with a faint silvery tracery.
“Go away … .” Wycherly croaked.
“Do you wish the power I can give you? Or … not?” The man smiled, revealing large, tobacco-stained teeth.
Madness, trap
,
threat …
And deep inside him, there was a part that responded with fugitive eagerness to the offer, that answered before Wycherly could censor it.
Power. Yes
,
power …
Give it to me.
“Leave me alone!” Wycherly shouted, wrenching himself away from that chill, piercing gaze. As he turned, he collided with something soft and warm. Sinah clung to him, half laughing, half sobbing in her relief.
“I thought—I thought—” she said, clutching at him as if he were a lifeline.
He tightened his arms around her—she was real, and living, and not a cold shadowy white thing waiting to drag him down to the Hell that waited for cowards and failures. He leaned his cheek against her hair, breathing in her salt and musk.
And as he did her scent kindled a fire in his blood, and a hunger—a
need—
that he had not felt in years blossomed along his nerves.
“Sinah …”
He forgot his fear. He forgot the apparition. His hands molded her body against his, as if he could press out the
food for his hunger through the contact. She answered him with an avarice of her own, pulling his head down to hers and kissing him deeply.
Here was power
. The thought flitted across the surface of his mind, taken for granted in the reality that was the elemental contract between man and woman: that one should take and one should give. He did not question the reason for any of this as he boosted Sinah up onto the altar top and clambered up after her. He sought his oblivion in her body as he had sought it in liquor—and found it.
Around him the spectral voices chanted.
“ … back, back from the darkness … Asmodeus, Azanoor, dark above me … my body to the beast and my soul to hell …”
Sinah came back to herself clutching Wycherly's ruckedup shirt in both hands, for a moment unable to remember where she was. Slowly her surroundings began to make sense to her. She was with Wycherly. The two of them were in the basement of Wildwood Sanatorium. The heat she'd sensed from the stone earlier was gone as if it had never been. Her T-shirt and jacket were wadded beneath her head, making a crude pillow, and her jeans still hung around one ankle.
Wycherly slept his sudden, deep, post-coital sleep against her shoulder. His copper hair spilled across her face, tickling when she breathed.
What had they done? It had been good, it had been wild—unconsciously she ran her palm down his back, smoothing the shirt and the flesh beneath—but it had been so sudden; almost mindless. They hadn't used protection. She didn't know his medical history. It was almost as if they'd been … compelled.
Oh, stop it! You'll be crying “rape” next!
But it hadn't been. This sort of thing wasn't her style, but she certainly hadn't been forced—or even over-persuaded. She'd flung herself into his arms, and things had gone on from there, just as if …
What? The thought slid away. She'd flung herself into his arms—

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