Gravelight (42 page)

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Authors: Marion Zimmer Bradley

BOOK: Gravelight
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She turned away, and Sinah was sitting up, a dazed, unfocused expression on her face.
“What happened?” Sinah asked. Her voice was faintly slurred. “Did I faint?”
Dylan walked past Truth to where Sinah sat, and helped her stand, staggering a bit himself.
“It looked like it,” he said. “Stress … shock. Nothing to worry about.”
Truth could see Sinah and Dylan already beginning to forget, to tell themselves that what had happened here was only suggestion and metaphor. Soon they would be able to convince themselves that all they'd seen had been some
bloodless rite of blessing, that Michael Archangel was only some kindly well-meaning ecclesiastic who'd done a friend a favor.
And that they'd never been in any real danger at all.
“So what happens now?” Truth asked Michael, setting aside their eternal confrontation. “You look all in—I'm sure we can find you a place to get your head down somewhere.”
“Another time, perhaps.” Michael looked at his watch. “But I need to get back to the airport. Light is waiting for me at the hotel there—we were heading for Japan when you called, Truth, so I thought I might just as well bring her with me. But I don't like to leave her alone—and if I make good time back there perhaps we can get an earlier flight to California.”
He closed his eyes for a moment, and suddenly Truth saw how very tired he was—and Clarksburg was a good two hours away by the map.
“Are you sure you're in any shape to drive?” Dylan asked, just as Truth was about to say something. “Why don't you have Truth drive you back—if Light's with you, I know she'd love to see her.”
“Oh, yes, that would be wonderful!” said Michael with guilty relief.
“You can just rent another car for the drive back,” Dylan said to Truth. “There must be somewhere closer than Clarksburg to turn it in.”
“Elkins or La Gouloue, I think, but Rowan can drive, if Michael wants a shotgun. I've got work to do here,” Truth said brusquely. She saw Sinah's eyes flash with pure panic at her words, confirming the rightness of Truth's decision. As much as Truth wanted to see Light, the Gate was more important now. And she didn't really relish spending any more time than she must in the company of Michael's disapproval.
Steeling herself against Dylan's objections, Truth walked over to where Sinah was leaning against the Black Altar—now a harmless normal block of stone.
“Sinah?” Truth said. “Sinah, you have to help me now. Michael has cleared the way, but it's time to close the Gate.”
Cautiously, Truth reached out with her
sidhe
senses. She could detect no sign of Quentin Blackburn's tainted Church, but that wasn't proof it was gone. The iron test would come when she and Sinah tried to close the Gate again.
Close it, seal it, close it … .
The words ran through Truth's mind over and over again. They'd had to delay too long—first with the endless obstacles Quentin had placed in their way, then with waiting for Michael to arrive. It was the middle of August—either the
teind
to the Wildwood Gate must be paid in the Gatekeeper's blood, or Sinah must lock and seal it forever. There was no third choice.
Sinah stared at Truth, her eyes dilated in utter panic.
“I—I—I—” she said.
“Truth.” Dylan touched her arm hesitantly, as though he were afraid she'd turn on him.
“Truth, can't you see she's all in? All of us are. I know this is important to you, but she can't possibly be of any help to you in her current condition. Give her some time,” he said mildly.
“There isn't any time,” Truth said tightly.
Didn't you hear what Michael did to me? The next person who dies here is my fault—MINEX—trapping me and binding me to the Wheel forever … .
“There has to be time,” Dylan said soothingly. “Sure, the disappearances peak in August. But does it really matter if you do your thing now, in a few hours, or even tomorrow? After the sheriff's men spent all day searching all through the woods yesterday, nobody's going to go wandering off up here.”
Dylan's was the voice of reason, Truth admitted bitterly, whether he believed in the reality of the Wildwood Gate or was simply saying whatever he thought she'd be likeliest to believe. And unfortunately, it was good advice. Sinah
was already exhausted and upset. It would take time to repersuade her to close the Gate.
“I feel really silly dragging you out like this just because I have ghosts in my backyard,” Sinah said to Michael as she got out of the car.
Truth climbed out after her, and as she did, she saw Michael smile. “It was no trouble, Ms. Dellon. It is an—avocation of mine,” he finished with curious precision.
“Well, I still feel awful, making you come all this way. The least I can do is feed you breakfast.”
“Thank you, but I must be on my way. Perhaps there will be another time,” he said.
“Sure,” Sinah said, in a tone that indicated she'd be just as happy if that time never came.
“I'll see if Ninian or Rowan can drive Michael back,” Dylan said. He hesitated, as though there were many things he'd like to say, but could not in front of the others.
“Well, see you later,” Dylan said at last. Truth watched as the sedan drove off down the dusty road. When she turned back, Sinah had gone, and Truth followed her inside.
“Sinah?” Truth followed the sounds to the kitchen, and found Sinah standing over the sink, washing her hands.
“I thought breakfast would be a good idea,” Sinah said brightly. But Truth could see her eyes, and they were flat, scared, and evasive.
“Why don't you let me do that?” Truth said. “I'm not much of a cook, but I can manage eggs. A solid meal, a few hours rest, and then we can go back up to the sanatorium again and seal the Gate.”
Sinah didn't answer directly, simply going to the refrigerator and starting to lay things out on her cutting board. “I thought your friend took care of all that,” she said offhandedly.
“Don't go into denial on me now,” Truth said, trying for a note of humor.
“I'm not.” Sinah looked directly at her, and her grey eyes
were as opaque as painted contact lenses. “I just think I've humored you long enough, Truth. Fun is fun, but it's a long walk on a hot day and I'm tired of playing.”
“Humored me?” Truth could not have been more stunned if Sinah had slapped her. “Is that what you think you've been doing?”
“What else?” Sinah's tone was coolly bored. “But playtime's over.”
Truth had expected evasions, refusals—anything but this outright denial. “I can't believe you're saying this,” Truth said honestly. “When I came up here for the first time three days ago, you were almost hysterical—you knew about the Gate—you told
me
about it! What about Athanais de Lyon?”
“What about her?” Sinah answered with the same maddening serenity. “Grow up, Truth.”
It seemed as if everyone had been saying that to Truth all summer: grow up, stop playing around—as if the dangerous intangibles that were her life's work were only toys.
“Tell me,” Truth said urgently. “You read my mind, when I came here—do you think I'm playing? Even if your gift has vanished—”
Sinah regarded her blankly, a faint superior smile on her face. “You weren't really taken in, were you? Party tricks. I swear, Truth-it was a game.”
Such was Sinah's serene conviction that for a wavering instant Truth doubted herself. But no. Sinah had not been playing when she'd begged Truth to save her from her nightmares, nor had Truth imagined any of the rest.
It's as if she's been hypnotized, or simply … forgotten most of her life.
But if this were some new trick of the Gate, or even of Sinah's own human mind, there was little Truth could do to change it with a frontal assault.
“If it was, it was a cruel one,” Truth said coolly. “And I hardly think you were being fair to Wycherly. Remember him?”
“Of course I remember Wycherly,” Sinah said after a pause. The statement was far from convincing. “Why don't you go wait in the living room, and I'll make us a nice omelet?”
And I can just hope she doesn't try to poison me, Truth thought darkly.
Kill her
, Jamie's lady said implacably.
I can't,
Sinah Dellon answered, as her hands moved with clever independence among the bowls and jars: chopping, testing, mixing.
And not even because she had any intrinsic objection to killing. She should, she ought to have, normal people did, but all she felt was an amoral interest in whether it would serve her purpose.
And it wouldn't. It wouldn't protect the Wellspring. Kill Truth, and the others would still know the Wellspring was there. Kill them all, and their disappearance would be noticed. People would come and she'd be locked up for ever, away from the Wellspring, without any of the bloodline to follow her.
The world had changed so much. Sinah looked back wistfully across a three-century span with as much nostalgia as though she'd lived through each year. If she had not, others had, and she remembered them.
Was it because of Athanais, who used the power of the Gate to grasp at life through her descendants? The first European member of the bloodline had never found what she sought after here in the wild Virginia wilderness all those centuries ago. Only imprisonment of another sort, as terrible as that she had fled, to live and die among members of an alien race. Her daughters and granddaughters and great-granddaughters had kept the trust that the Tutelo sachem's blood had laid on them: to guard and serve the Wellspring.
But the bloodline had been defeated at last by the one enemy cleverness and trickery couldn't foil—time. The twentieth century—with its computers and records, its police and everyone demanding to know where someone was
every single
minute—
was what would cause the blood-line to break its trust at last. The Wellspring would be known, plundered, left unguarded. She had been too weak … .
Sinah whisked eggs and cream together with automatic gestures, and slid the mixture into a waiting pan. When the surface had hardened, she eased in the rest of the ingredients—cheese, onions, mushrooms, peppers—and folded the omelet over with an adroit gesture. A little big, but suitable for two.
Time. I need time.
She tossed bread into the toaster, and reached up into the cupboard to take down jam to go with it.
As she did, she saw the bottle of sleeping pills.
Wycherly's pills. Strong ones, too. He'd left them here. Just one the other night had made her sleep without dreams for hours. What would more do?
And how can I get Truth to take them?
Within the depths of her mind, Sinah felt Athanais stir, and laugh. This was something Jamie's lady knew how to do.
Sinah took down a teacup from the cabinet and set it on the counter. She shook several capsules from the jar and began opening them, spilling the white powder inside into the cup.
Truth paced around Sinah's living room, wishing irrationally that Dylan were here. Dylan was the one with the charm to soothe the tantrums of balky psychics, not her.
But how much help would Dylan be without belief?
None
, Truth admitted ruefully. She listened to Sinah clattering around in the kitchen making brunch, and wondered what arguments she could use to get past that stubborn barrier that Sinah had so easily flung up between them. Truth had a terrible sense that time was running out, that there was not much more time left in which to save Sinah.
Save Sinah?
Truth was puzzled at the direction of her own thoughts. Surely she had already saved Sinah when
Michael had driven away all that was left of the ego, the personality, of Quentin Blackburn. All that was left was for Truth to gain Sinah's cooperation to close the Wildwood Gate.
Truth could have pulled Sinah into the Otherworld by brute force at any time—all it would take was a touch, skin to skin, to bring her there for at least an instant—but would that work, or just make things worse? The Light could not compel, relying for its power on moral suasion. The Dark compelled, claiming the right of those with power to do anything they could. Truth's way was a more difficult one—it was true that she could force others to work her will, but in doing so she assumed responsibility for the action and any harm it might cause. The Grey Path: a wavering middle ground, which could easily slide toward impotence … or evil.
“Brunch is ready!” Sinah called cheerfully.
There was a fresh-cooked omelet, strong tea, fresh orange juice, and thick-sliced toast slathered with preserves from a jar with a designer label. Fancier wasn't always better, Truth decided, taking a bite; the jam was far too sweet. But she was hungry, and ate the toast anyway. And everything else was perfect.

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