The Adept (17 page)

“Star of the Sea, Wisdom most potent, be thou a light before me and behind me,” he whispered. “Be thou a beacon in the darkness, a bright star to guide and protect me . . .”

At first he could sense nothing beyond the shadowy sea-surge that was his own unconscious, ceaselessly rolling, ebb and flow, in the waiting stillness. Then, all at once, a breath of wind stirred in the darkness, moving over the face of the deep and bringing with it the invigorating kiss of inspiration. As he spoke the Word of his grade in his heart of hearts, the dawning came.

At first he could see nothing for the radiance that surrounded him. Then, as the brightness subsided, he found himself standing in spirit at the center of a bare stone chamber. Before him was a massive door, bound with iron like a dungeon port. On an iron peg to the left of the door hung a heavy, rust-encrusted key.

The atmosphere within the chamber was charged with roiling anger. Adam felt it in his nerve ends like the ionizing crackle of sheet lightning. The source of that anger lay on the other side of the dungeon door. He was seeing in symbols, but he could entertain no doubt that the identity generating that anger once had answered to the name of Michael Scot.

Adam studied the scene for a long moment, weighing up the psychic reality underlying the visual imagery. Symbolic logic dictated that he should take up the key and unlock the door in order to set Scot free. He distrusted the apparent simplicity of the solution, but could find no hidden alternatives. In the end, grimly aware that he was courting danger, he braced himself and reached for the key. It came away in his hand without resistance.

Adam mentally breathed a sigh of relief and examined the key more closely. It was solidly made and intricately whorled beneath the rust, but even under close scrutiny its
precise form eluded the eye. Conscious of a warning tingle at the base of his skull, he set the key in the lock and gave it a strong turn to the right.

The mechanism yielded and the door burst wide. In the same instant, Adam’s whole frame of reference exploded in flames.

Fire crackled and surged all around him. He tried to elude it and discovered that he was bound fast to a tall stake. The twin towers of a Gothic cathedral loomed above him, wreathed in clouds of greasy smoke. In the courtyard below, masses of spectators were bowling blasphemous abuse in the language of another age.

Searing heat lashed out at his feet and legs, charring the flesh on his bones. Within seconds his whole lower body was engulfed in a devouring conflagration. Ashes choked the tortured screams that rose in his throat as the flames rose higher. There was no escape . . . no escape . . .

NO!

Somewhere in the midst of his agony, the voice of reason made itself heard.
This isn’t Paris!
shouted the modern part of his mind.
Paris was then. This is now!

NOW!

You’re not Jauffre de Saint Clair! You’re Adam! Sir Adam Sinclair—laird of Strathmourne—Baron of Templemor—Master of the Hunt!

Clinging to these phrases that were his present identity, he recited his name and titles over and over like a litany, denying the past that was past and affirming the present.

The flames wavered momentarily in the face of his conviction, and he used that brief instant of respite to call up the saving powers that were the gift of Light. New strength welled up within him, like a spring of living water. The bonds that held him frayed and broke; the fire flickered out in a malevolent hiss of quenched energies. Like the phoenix of the Sinclair crest, his liberated spirit took flight out of the cinders of a previous existence. When he snapped back to normal consciousness, he was back in the confines of the morgue at Borders General Hospital.

Peregrine was staring at him, his expression acutely concerned. As soon as he saw that Adam’s eyes were open, he started forward.

“Are you all right?” he demanded.

As Adam nodded a little dazedly, McLeod’s face appeared beside Peregrine’s.

“What the devil happened? You cried out. I was afraid someone from the hospital staff was going to be down on us.”

Adam drew a long, shuddering breath, still struggling to restore calm. “For a moment, I thought the past was about to repeat itself,” he said thickly.

“You mean your own past.” McLeod made it a curt statement. “What was it then, some kind of trap?”

“Not exactly.” Adam frowned, remembering. “Not even so much a trap as a—an associated effect of the binding spell our arrogant friends used to restrain Scot.” At McLeod’s look of question, he groped for a clearer explanation.

“Let me try it another way,” he ventured. “Let’s say that the spell is designed to—reawaken resonances from the past. Anyone entering the field risks reliving some episode from his personal history.”

“You think they were expecting interference, then?”

McLeod asked.

Adam shook his head, still thoughtful. “Not on that level, certainly. I doubt they even expected knowledgeable investigation, If they had, it would have cost them far less effort simply to tidy up at the grave site, rather than taking the time to set a deliberate trap. I’m not even certain
that
was deliberate. It may simply have been left over from what they did to compel Scot back. It’s precisely this random quality to their actions that’s going to make them difficult to predict and dangerous to follow. We’d better be on our guard from here on out.”

Peregrine nodded, his expression one of mingled awe and uncertainty, and McLeod grunted by way of assent.

“What about Scot, then?”

“I’ve only broken a part of the binding,” Adam replied.

“There’s still the physical unbinding to be done. It shouldn’t
be as tricky as the first, though. And if I can, I’d like to find out what he told them.”

McLeod favored Adam with an appraising look, then shrugged, apparently satisfied.

“If you say so. I’ll mind the door, as before.”

He moved back to his post. Peregrine watched in owl-eyed silence as Adam drew a deep breath and then went through a series of ritual gestures that culminated in the tracing of a pentagram and then a circled cross in the ah over the body. After that, the older man inscribed a third symbol on Scot’s forehead with his thumb, then touched the thumb and fourth finger of his right hand to Scot’s temples and closed his eyes with a murmured word of command too low for Peregrine to catch.

The body on the table began to shudder. The lipless mouth moved, yellow teeth chattering. The shuddering mounted to a wracking paroxysm that lasted for several seconds. Then all at once the body fell still, with only the bony fingers left twitching feebly.

Adam remained motionless for the space of several heartbeats, then opened his eyes. He took his hand away from Scot’s forehead and glanced at McLeod.

“Sorry, but I’m going to need you, Noel,” he said softly.

“Scot’s willing—eager, even—to communicate with us, but this body is too far gone. Will you be his voice?”

McLeod grimaced and gave a resigned sigh. “I was afraid it might come to this,” he said, summoning Peregrine to take his place, and bending briefly to check the door lock again before crossing to join Adam. “It’s a good thing the minister of my kirk isn’t here to see this, or he’d have me thrown out of the General Assembly.”

He made a ritual sign of recognition as he approached the table that had become their working altar, and the juxtaposition of magical gesture and pious concern elicited a faint smile on Adam’s part as he answered the salute.

“Never mind the minister of the kirk,” he said lightly.

“What about your police superiors?”

“Aye, they’d have their knickers in a twist, too! Let’s get on with it.”

Moving around to the other side of the table, so that the body lay between them, McLeod took off his glasses and slipped them into a breast pocket, then set his hands on the table’s edge as Adam had done, closing his eyes. Almost at once, his respiration settled into the slow, measured rhythm Peregrine had begun to associate with the onset of a trance.

Adam’s face took on a relaxed, dreamlike appearance as well, though he did not close his eyes.

Silence profound settled over the room. After a long further moment, Adam reached across to lightly touch McLeod between the eyes. Then he set his hands back on the table, glancing briefly at the corpse between them.

“The door stands open to receive you,” he intoned.

“Enter the vessel without fear.”

A heartbeat’s pause. Then a shiver passed through McLeod’s sturdy frame. He inhaled deeply and opened his eyes. Across the room, Peregrine stifled a gasp, for the lively intelligence reflected in the darting blue eyes was no longer that of the police inspector.

“Speak, brother,” Adam’s voice urged softly.

McLeod’s lips parted. For an instant no sound came out.

Then an unfamiliar voice spoke in tones of imperious urgency.

“What is this place?” demanded the being that had taken command of McLeod’s body. “Where am I, in space and time?”

“You are at Melrose,” said Adam, his own voice deep and even. “But eight centuries have passed since you were laid to rest there.”

“And how long since the summoning?”

“We do not know for certain,” Adam said. “At least twelve or fourteen hours, perhaps as long as eighteen,”

“Eighteen hours!” Something like fear flashed behind the blue eyes. Then the piercing gaze shifted, ranging beyond Adam and Peregrine as though searching distractedly for something at a distance.

“The cord . . . The silver cord is fraying!” muttered the voice of Michael Scot. “The heart is faltering—”

“The heart!” Adam stiffened visibly, his next words sharp with concern. “Have you, then, an identity in this present age?”

“Yes!” The presence that was Michael Scot sent a tortured shudder through its host body, growing distraction in the voice. “A child now . . . only a child. And death is perilously near!”

This declaration sent a cold chill racing up Peregrine’s spine. His vision blurred. In his mind’s eye, he saw the image of a young girl, barely into puberty. She was lying motionless on a hospital bed, in the icy grip of a deep coma, her face blanched white under an adolescent powdering of freckles . . .

“Time runs short,” the voice of Michael Scot murmured.

“I must return at once, or abide another turning of the Wheel.” The voice throbbed with sudden, desperate appeal.

“By all that is holy, if thou be truly brother, I charge thee to release me! Release me, while I yet have a living body to return to!”

“And so we shall,” Adam promised in swift assurance, “but first I beg you to tell us—if you know—who summoned you and why.”

“Rievers from the Dark Road . . .” Scot’s tone seemed increasingly distracted. “They wanted my book, my gold—the philosophers’ gold that is the secret to unlock all other secrets! They bound me, and I was powerless to hold back the knowledge of the treasure’s resting place.”

Scot’s voice broke into a dry sob, and McLeod’s blue eyes closed as a spasm of pain wracked his body.

“The book and the gold are guarded,” the wizard’s voice continued raggedly, “but the Rievers may yet prevail, through the power they have usurped.” The eyes blazed up at Adam once again. “Swear to me that thou shalt pursue them, and I shall give thee freely what they took from me by force!”

“I swear it!” Adam said. “By my Office, as Master of the Hunt, I swear that I will do my utmost to see justice “done.”

This declaration won a grim nod of acceptance from Scot. Triumphant, he turned his compulsion on Peregrine.

All at once the artist found himself entrapped by the burning gaze, unable to look away. Pain lanced his eyes, bringing with it a flood-tide of mental pictures, compelling him to put pencil to paper. His present surroundings forgotten, he lost himself in a feverish race to sketch down everything that passed before his inner eye.

A castle on a low cliff . . . a sweep of dark water below. A crescent of pebbled beach . . . a rock-bound cave. His pencil flying, Peregrine filled the next several pages of his sketchbook at a speed he could not control. By the time Scot at last released him, his whole hand was aching with strain. Without volition, his fingers flexed to relieve their cramping, his pencil slipping from fingers too numb to retain their grip.

The pencil struck the bare floor with a wooden clatter. Adam shot Peregrine a lightning glance, then returned to face Scot. For an instant they locked eyes. Then Adam made a sign between them in the air.

“By the authority of the Seven do I release you, brother,” he declared in a deep voice that rang clear as a bell, “Go in peace, to fulfill your appointed destiny,”

Air left McLeod’s lungs in a rush. He breathed in again sharply and lurched against the autopsy table. The corpse before him seemed all at once to fold inward on itself. Under Peregrine’s incredulous gaze, it crumbled in seconds into so much powdery grey dust.

In the same instant, McLeod lost his precarious balance and crumpled to his knees, his breath now coming swift and hard. Adam had darted around the head of the table at the first sign of distress, and had an arm under his even as he collapsed in a faint. Propping the inspector upright against his knee, he groped in his pocket for an ammonia capsule, which he snapped open with a flick of his thumb and passed under McLeod’s nose.

“Steady, old friend,” Adam murmured, as McLeod twitched and tried to escape the pungent aroma. Relentlessly Adam brought it under his patient’s nose again. This time the inspector managed a speechless jerk of his head and opened his eyes, though they still were not quite focusing properly.

“Good man!” Adam’s voice reassured, as he shifted to press two fingers to the other man’s carotid pulse. “You’re doing just fine. Don’t try to move too quickly, though. I
think he must have pulled out faster than you were expecting.”

“Och, aye, he did that,” McLeod muttered, sitting up cautiously with Adam’s help and taking several deep, ragged breaths. “God, I hate it when they do that! My head feels like to explode.”

“You’ll be all right in a few minutes,” Adam replied.