The Dark Remains (27 page)

Farr had left Denver yesterday morning for a whirlwind trip to London. Deirdre had urged him to make his case via electronic means, but he had insisted on going in person. Which made little sense, for as far as she knew no one had ever talked to the Philosophers directly, not even Farr. The leaders of the Seekers were always in communication, but they remained out of view, veiled in secrecy and anonymity. So it had been throughout the five-hundred-year history of the Seekers.

However, Farr had thought it best to return to London. Perhaps, if nothing else, it demonstrated his commitment to the cause. And evidently it had worked. Despite their direct violation of the Third Desideratum—
A Seeker watches but does not interfere
—there would be no reprimand from the Philosophers.

Not that Deirdre believed she and Farr had done anything wrong in coming to Denver. After all, it was Grace Beckett who had called them, not the reverse. However, the Nine Desiderata were not written in shades of gray. The intention of the Third Desideratum was to forbid Seekers from interacting directly with otherworldly subjects, so as to prevent any contamination of their behavior.

Fortunately, Seeker agents tended to be a clever and resourceful lot, and as a result it was nearly four centuries ago that one of them, Marius Lucius Albrecht, first invoked in his defense the Ninth Desideratum:
Above all else, a Seeker must let no other being come to harm
.

Albrecht had been faced with expulsion from the Seekers for contacting—and some stories said falling in love with—a woman who had otherworldly connections. However, he demonstrated that she had been in peril for her life, and that he had no choice but to intervene.

Above all else …

Albrecht claimed those three words meant the Ninth superseded all other Desiderata and, after long deliberation, the Philosophers agreed. Albrecht was not expelled, and he went on to become the most celebrated Seeker agent in the organization’s history. It was said he would certainly have become a Philosopher himself were it not for his death at the age of thirty-seven.

Of course, Deirdre had heard it whispered often enough among her fellow agents that Hadrian Farr was the next Marius Lucius Albrecht incarnate. So perhaps it was only fitting that he invoked the Ninth Desideratum himself—for the third time in his career. And certainly there was no
doubt that Grace Beckett and Travis Wilder were in danger. As was their otherworldly friend, the one they called Beltan. The Philosophers had had no choice but to grant Farr a dispensation.

Deirdre stood and walked over to Farr. “I don’t understand why you’re upset, Hadrian. The Philosophers agreed with you.”

“Yes, they did. Except I’m not entirely certain that they should have.” He leaned toward her, elbows on knees. “These are the Philosophers, Deirdre. The dread, all-powerful, maddeningly inflexible, and mysterious Philosophers. By God, they should have put up something of a fight, don’t you think? Instead they granted my dispensation with barely a moment’s thought. For all their mumbo jumbo about history and the weightiness of duties, they seem perfectly willing to send one Seeker, one journeyman, and a bit of muscle to counter Duratek in what is clearly the most important case of this century.”

“Maybe they have confidence in us,” Deirdre said with a shrug.

“Well, I’m not certain I do.” He rummaged in the seat cushion beside him, retrieved the second liquor bottle, and finally managed to struggle the cap off. He downed half the contents.

Deirdre frowned. “So breaking the Third Desideratum isn’t enough. Now you’re going after Number Six.
A Seeker shall not allow his judgment to be compromised.
”

“Oh, and you’re a fine one to quote from the Book. And don’t tell me that was crème de menthe I found you drinking in Soho.”

She affected her most pious look, learned in imitation of her devoutly Catholic great-aunt during one of her summers in Ireland. “I was on a break from the Seekers at the time.”

He laughed: a rich, booming sound that completely startled Deirdre. In her experience, Farr had always been unfailingly—sometimes exasperatingly—composed no matter
the circumstance. She had never before heard him utter a sound containing the ring of desperation.

“No, Deirdre. Don’t you see? There’s no such thing as a break from the Seekers. It’s not a social club you attend when the whim strikes. It’s a holy marriage with no hope of annulment. Until death do us part.” He raised the bottle and downed the remaining liquid.

Deirdre watched him drink. The fact was, his words
did
disturb her. Why were the Philosophers willing to invest so much faith in two people when so much was at stake? She didn’t understand. But then, there was much the Philosophers did and said that she failed to understand. They had purpose and knowledge unknown to the rest of the Seekers.

Behind her, the computer let out a soothing electronic tone. She returned to the table. The data had finished streaming, and the summary report filled the screen. Deirdre scrolled through the rows of information. As she did, her sense of unease grew.

“This doesn’t make sense,” she murmured.

A rustling of linen behind her. Farr.

“What have you got there, Deirdre?” His voice was low and measured again; the Hadrian she knew.

“I don’t know,” she said honestly. “I really don’t know.”

She hadn’t told Farr about her encounter with Glinda that last night in London. It was hard enough to understand herself why she had gone looking for the woman, let alone explain it to another. A dozen times Deirdre had replayed the conversation at Surrender Dorothy, but still she could not fathom what it meant. Only Glinda’s sorrow had been achingly clear—as was the cool, green forest Deirdre had glimpsed when they kissed.

The silver ring Glinda had given her at their parting was an intriguing artifact; Deirdre had performed several remote searches in the Seekers’ databases, but so far she had found no match for the symbols engraved on the inside surface of the ring. On a hunch she had even tried a
pattern match with runes known to have originated on AU-3—the runes on Grace Beckett’s necklace. There were no similarities. The writing on the ring was spidery and flowing, unlike the angular runes of the world called Eldh. However, the ring had more than just writing with which to tell a story. Deirdre had wrapped it in plastic and had couriered it to the Seeker laboratories. There had been enough skin cells on the ring for them to do DNA sequencing. But the sample must have been contaminated somehow, because the report she was reading could not be correct. She scrolled again to the words at the bottom of the file:

Farr leaned against the table and bent closer to the computer screen. “What is this, Deirdre?”

“It’s a DNA sequence.”

“I can see that. I mean where did you get it?”

Deirdre shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. The sample is contaminated. The analysis is worthless.”

“No, I don’t think that’s true. May I?”

She glanced up at him, puzzled by the soft intensity of his words, but before she could answer he took the computer and slid it toward him.

“You’re connected to the main system in London, right?”

Farr opened a new session window and typed in his authorization. A menu Deirdre had never seen before
appeared, its cryptic options beyond her understanding. Farr selected one, and a list of files appeared. He clicked, and columns of short, alternating bars filled the screen. Another DNA sequence.

“There,” Farr said. “Look.”

He pointed to a portion of the sequence. Deirdre took the computer back. She resized the windows and positioned them side by side. One by one she compared rows. The pattern was identical.

“I don’t understand.” Her breath fogged against the screen. “Where did you get this sample?”

“I didn’t get it. It’s from a relic contained in the vaults beneath the London Charterhouse. In 1817, the Seekers acquired a crystal phial purported to contain the blood of St. Joan.”

“St. Joan?”

“Yes, Joan of Arc—the girl who led the French to battle and who was burned at the stake as a heretic. According to the elderly Franciscan monk from whom the relic was obtained, the blood was collected by a faithful friar, taken from one of St. Joan’s wounds while she was imprisoned, and preserved in the phial of crystal. It was several years ago that I obtained permission from the Philosophers to open the phial and have a sample of the blood sequenced. I was performing a study on genetic anomalies in individuals with extra-Earthly experiences.”

“You’re saying Joan of Arc had otherworldly connections?”

He shrugged. “She spoke to God, didn’t she?”

Deirdre didn’t know how to answer that. But if Farr was correct, then whatever St. Joan had possessed that set her apart from other humans Glinda possessed as well. As did, perhaps, her unborn child. Deirdre closed her eyes, picturing Glinda’s lovely, fragile face.

No one knows how, but they’ve gotten themselves a pureblood. They don’t need any of us now
.…

But what did it mean? Who had Glinda been talking about? She opened her eyes and started to reach again for the computer, then froze, her eyes locked on the front page of the battered London
Times
Farr had thrown on the desk when he entered. A buzzing filled her ears.

“Where did you get this sample, Deirdre?” Farr said, his voice low, excited. “I had thought my analysis at an end years ago, but once again you’ve opened a door for me. We should dispatch a Seeker to keep watch on this Glinda subject immediately. Where can we find her?”

Deirdre licked her lips. “You won’t find her.”

“What do you mean?”

Deirdre hardly heard him. It was amazing how one could mourn the loss of something one had never really had. Once again she read the headline:

She touched the paper, running her hand over a photo showing the burned-out shells of several storefronts. The destruction had been nearly complete. Newsprint smeared under her fingers like a haze of smoke.

A soft oath behind her. “I’m so sorry, Deirdre. It looks as though someone got there first.”

Yes, someone. But who? Images flashed in Deirdre’s mind: purple pills, a white lightning bolt, an empty bottle. With the discipline of spirit taught to her by her shaman grandfather, Deirdre acknowledged her sorrow, then set it aside to be lived fully later, when the time was appropriate. Now she kindled a fire from anger. It was time to take action.

She shut the lid of the computer and stood, then turned to see Farr watching her with an expression that was both curious and—despite his drinking—utterly sober.

“Yes?” he said simply.

“How about we see what our good friends at Duratek Corporation are up to?”

He arched a single eyebrow. “Do you mean to tell me you know where they are holding the subject from AU-3?”

She grabbed her black-leather jacket from a chair and pulled it on. “Let’s say I have a pretty good hunch. This morning I managed to follow one of their vehicles for a while. And unless they’re opening their new corporate headquarters in an industrial building next door to the dog-food factory, I think we just might be on to something.”

“And why didn’t you tell me about this earlier?”

She zipped her jacket up and grinned: a feral, humorless expression. “You were on a plane, Farr. Remember?”

Beltan of Calavan, bastard son of King Beldreas, knight errant, captain in the Order of Malachor, and onetime Knight Protector to Lady Melindora Nightsilver, was running.

He ran through an empty dominion, over flat, gray plains beneath a flat, gray sky. It was impossible to tell if it was night or day; the very air was gray, like everything else in this place, and there were no shadows. Nor was there sound, save for that of his own breath. Even his feet made no noise as they trod upon soft, colorless grass. He was naked.

Beltan did not know where he had run from, or where in this shadowless dominion he was running to. He only knew that he could not remain still; that if he ceased to
move there would be nothing to prevent him from fading into the grayness all around until he was gone altogether.

Sometimes as he ran he recalled stories told to him as a child, spoken by grizzled warriors who sat in the warmth of the fire in Calavere’s great hall, their fighting days long done—waiting now for the one final battle which they could only lose. Some were missing eyes, others fingers, arms, legs. They laughed and said that a lost limb went on ahead of a warrior and that it would be waiting for him when he got to Vathranan, the great hall of the god Vathris Bullslayer that lay beyond the marches of the world, so that the dead might fight beside the living in the Final Battle. But sometimes, in hoarse voices, they also spoke of Sindanan, the Gray Land where cowards and traitors went after death, and the hands of the old men shook as they said these things, so that they spilled their beer on the hot stones of the hearth where it hissed into steam and vanished.

Perhaps this was the Gray Land the warriors had spoken of. Perhaps Sindanan was also the place where bastards who murdered their own fathers went when they died.

With his left hand, Beltan gripped his side as he ran. It seemed an instinctive motion. Hadn’t there used to be pain? He looked down, but there was no wound in his flesh. Instead, the skin was smooth and pale, without blemish. Yet there had been a gash there before, he was sure of it, its ragged edges yawning open and closed as he ran like a laughing mouth. How long ago had he last seen it? He didn’t know. Time had faded like everything in this place.

When Beltan glimpsed the shadow some distance ahead and to one side, he could not comprehend what it was. He almost turned his face away and ran on. There were no shadows in this land; there was nothing. Only the love men held in their hearts for cowards, traitors, and bastards: a cold, empty cup.