“She is no ordinary woman, my friend. She is not only a Lady of the House Connach; she is a priestess of the Sacred Grove. That last sets her apart from other mortals.
“Eogan will come to bring you to this House each day that the Lady Brigid is to instruct you.” He leaned forward quickly so that his lips were close to Morgan’s ear. “This is not Southern California, and if you try to treat my sister like a harbor barmaid I’ll show you how far behind I’ve left Lord Nero’s teachings!” Before Morgan could form his protest, the tall Navarchus left the hall with his tartan swirling about him like the angry lashing of a great cat’s tail.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Morgan was fully dressed and ferally pacing the floor of his borrowed apartment when Evans tapped on the outer door and poked his head into the room.
“Breakfast?” Evans asked inquiringly after looking at Morgan’s face.
Morgan snarled a response that could have curdled milk in the bottle.
“Follow me,” Evans said sunnily, despite Morgan’s breech of manners, and left the room.
Morgan followed in a black mood until his guide led him to a table in the hall that served as a mess. Greenfeld and a young man Morgan had never before met sat on a long, plain bench, eating a breakfast of fresh fruits and a flat pastry.
“Mornin’,” said the stranger. Greenfeld simply nodded a greeting, his mouth full.
“Kerry Morgan, I’d like you to meet Jim Kirkpatrick, formerly of the U.S. National Geodesic Survey Team, now serving our good friends here in Reged,” Evans said with a mocking flourish.
The moon-faced black officer reached up and gripped Morgan’s automatically outstretched hand. “Have a seat. A servant’ll bring you a bowl.” He grinned easily. “I never figured to meet the designer of that goddamned witch boat. The boys were out looking for you and that other missing 4D for a long time. Just about gave up hope. But at least they found you.”
“What other 4D?” Morgan’s voice was too loud, and he lowered it selfconsciously, belligerence replaced with incredulity. “Wiscombe would have beached them all after Le Fay disappeared.” What if he hadn’t?
“Dunno about that,” Kirkpatrick mumbled, stabbing another mouthful of pastry towards his face with the point of his dagger. “Connach thinks it was this guy, Kettelmann. Didn’t he tell you anything about what happened in West Harbor after you made the ‘Crossing’?”
“I can’t get him to tell me much of anything,” Morgan said bitterly. “But I don’t understand this thing about Kettelmann. He was aboard my boat when the Mirror failed. He was on deck—with an old friend.”
“Mirrors don’t fail,” Kirkpatrick said quietly.
“Mine did,” Morgan returned stubbornly.
“Like I said, man, Mirrors don’t fail. Not really, not any time.”
A roaring began deep inside Morgan’s head that almost blocked out Kirkpatrick’s next words.
“Whatever you want to believe, you just keep believin’. But hear me when I tell you that the topsides of your boat stayed in our old world when you answered the ‘call’. Another sailboat picked up your two passengers almost before they got their socks wet. That girl’s back in West Harbor, but we’re not exactly sure where that Kettelmann got himself to. We know him and that girl you had on board got safely ashore, though.”
“How in hell...?” Morgan began.
“Connach has ways of knowing what goes on back home,” Evans answered for Kirkpatrick. He seemed embarrassed by something that Morgan sensed involved himself.
“It’s the almighty Mirror,” Kirkpatrick drawled. “The Rangers took the Series, by the way. Five straight.” He seemed about to add something else, then hesitated and concentrated on his empty bowl instead.
Morgan sat pensively, his breakfast cake cooling. Kendra, Kettelmann, safe? Kettelmann maybe here in this world…or maybe his boat cracked open like a nut and his body already shared by an orca patrol. Even Kettelmann deserved better than that. He sat up straighter. The Mirror. A sudden insight began to shed some light on the darkness Connach seemed deliberately to weave about him.
“Connach had nothing to do with inventing the Mirror, did he?”
Greenfeld smiled beatifically, giving Morgan the answer without speaking.
“Not unless he’s over two hundred years old,” Kirkpatrick muttered, pushing slowly back from the table. “I was told that the sucker was developed and used as a freight transporter ‘bout two centuries back. One unit sends; another receives. Every Free State city had Mirror terminals once. Least that’s what Connach wants us to believe.”
“Then the Viks hit them,” Greenfeld interrupted sadly, as if telling a story of his own people, as if the mysterious enemy had invaded his homeland. “But some Free State wizard decided that love alone wouldn’t stop the bastards and came up with a simple technique to blow them up instead. Rebel Druids smuggled receivers into Vik encampments and sent for some kind of monster bomb. The volunteers always vaporized with the Viks, but I guess recruits had to be turned away in those less enlightened days. The Viks would have one helluva time winning elections back then. They’re not much more popular today.
“But, in those days, the Free State defenders had balls.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice so only those at that one table could hear, even though Morgan suspected that nobody else in the mess hall understood English. “You have probably picked it up by now, Morgan; these people, most of them anyhow, are religious fanatics, and of a kind that is most dangerous to the fanatic.”
“Something about Lord Nero I’ve been led to believe,” Morgan replied with a half laugh.
“Something about that, all right,” Greenfeld said, with a mirthless twist to his lips. “The most dedicated exterminator of Jews. Well I have to admit that he tossed a few of you Christians to the lions, too. I had to pick a place where half the population thinks he’s a god. What a vacation spot! My sister said I should have gone to Miami. ‘No,’ I said. ‘I’m going to buy a new boat this summer.’ Maybe she was right.”
Morgan decided he was going to like Greenfeld.
“You’ll get the unabridged version from the Lady Brigid, most likely, today. That old war is the key to their present problems, and you’d be better armed by at least knowing about the consequences of active resistance before you start arguing politics with the locals.”
He paused with deliberation and wiped the beads of perspiration that dotted his scalp along the hairline. He carefully folded and arranged his handkerchief before continuing. Morgan fidgeted as his breakfast cooled and coagulated in his bowl.
“After the initial success of the maverick priests’ bombing missions, the Nero-rejecting Druids gained the upper political hand, and the Good Old Boys decided it was prime time to settle the barbarian’s hash once and for all. They sent bright-eyed Druids with Mirrors into every major enemy settlement they could locate and then delivered a gigantic package to each one simultaneously. Kaboom! They succeeded beyond their wildest imaginings, unfortunately. Knocked this planet clean out of its orbit and into a new one a bit closer to old Sol. That was genuine manmade global warming!” He moved a bowl from one side of the table to the other to illustrate his point. “They lost the moon forever as well, but they didn’t succeed in eliminating the damned Viks. They just stunned them for about thirty years.”
Greenfeld belched, then grimaced, “Your friend, Connach, says that nuclear weapons have never been developed here. He says that the priests ‘unleashed the sleeping dragons under the earth.’ What’s that supposed to mean to a rational, public school educated man?”
“Whatever those explosive devices were, they sure as hell changed this place around,” Kirkpatrick said genially. “Accelerated tectonic movement, melted polar caps, earthquakes, volcanic eruptions, tidal waves. Name the disaster movie and these folks’ve had the real thing—in spades. Pardon the personal reference.
Morgan then totally comprehended the uselessness of his sextant and his compass—the need for Verulamiu
m’s titanic fjord gates. “Ian said I’d understand. I think I’m beginning to.”
“And that ain’t all,” Evans interjected. “The sea level rose over forty meters; this island split off from the mainland Free States.”
“Their Nero faction suddenly regained its lost popularity. Bet his sanctuaries were SRO for a while,” Kirkpatrick said wryly.
“Their gods really seemed to come down on them, but the warrior types were the ones to take the ax, both in the short and long term senses,” Greenfeld added. “It didn’t take those superstitious Celts long to dump their weapons into the drink and tear down their defenses. They almost succeeded in dismantling every remaining Mirror, but Connach’s grandfather halted that move. Ever since then, the few remaining Mirrors have been limited to peaceful uses—simple transport and that sort of thing. How Connach uses the thing to bridge dimensions or realities, or why they let him do it, I’ll probably never understand. But we know it works, don’t we? They’ve got something here that we never had in San Diego, that’s for certain.” Greenfeld gave Morgan an easy smile.
“Those Druids really watch our boy though and make dead sure he doesn’t slip the Viks another forbidden surprise,” he sighed, loosening his cinglium one notch. He then meticulously cleaned his knife blade on the hem of his tunic.
The history Morgan was hearing only generated more questions in his mind, but before he could open his mouth again, the other men pushed back their benches and stood as if they had already said too much.
“Got to go to work,” Kirkpatrick said, looking uncomfortable. “Enjoy your breakfast if you can. Those cakes really suck when they get cold.”
Morgan prodded a flaccid pastry with a forefinger. It was cold and looked unappetizing.
“Thanks.”
“One more thing, Morgan,” Kirkpatrick added as he turned to leave. “When you see the Lady Brigid, don’t think of her as a woman. Connach won’t like it.”
“I already found that out.” Anger oozed like a lava flow into his veins and brought unhealthy color to his cheeks.
“Don’t let it bother you, though,” Evans said with the assurance of a married man. “Gentlemen? How about a little game of friendly poker at my quarters this evening?” Each man nodded assent, even Morgan. “I’ll come by to show you the way after evening mess, Morgan,” Evans offered. Then the small troupe of Californians and the single, transplanted Texan left the hall.
Morgan, feeling cast adrift, poked listlessly at his cold meal, finding it inedible. He brooded for a time, his dark brows knit in a tight frown. Who are the Viks, he pondered. And why has Connach brought this collection of pleasure boat sailors here? He found no answers in the unappetizing mess that lay in his bowl.
Eogan was patiently waiting when Morgan returned home alone from the mess hall. Connach’s servant bore no note but gestured towards the still open door. Morgan eagerly complied. At last, he thought. At last.
Eogan did not lead Morgan over the route they had taken the previous night. Instead, he took Morgan down a gracefully curved stone staircase that sank into the cool depths beneath the officers’ quarters. They emerged shortly into a high-ceilinged vault that held a raised platform and a peculiar run of steel rails. An octagonal panel was molded into one section of wall below a set of colored maps. The symbols used were unfamiliar to Morgan, but he reasoned they most likely represented Verulamium and its surrounding territory.
One depicted a large area: a long, narrow island and a substantial portion of adjacent mainland coastline. Roman numerals set beneath the charts glowed in two colors: a bright red and an electric blue. Both red and blue numerals glowed on the island map, but the mainland showed a uniformly ruddy aspect. The meaning eluded him and he lacked the words to ask Eogan.
A bronze, Janus-headed figure stood beneath the display with right palm raised in frozen greeting. Eogan paused before the statue and pressed his right palm against the metal one. Two new lights pulsed blue on the city map as Eogan left the two-headed god and touched Morgan’s arm to attract attention. The boy pointed to the curving section of rail that led into the darkened maw of a tunnel.
Morgan abruptly felt, more than heard, a painful, high frequency whine, and overlaid on that, a rushing noise. Alarmingly, a cylindrical car swooped into the light, pneumatic wheels gripping four I-bar rails. The car groaned loudly as it obeyed whatever commands directed its travel and stopped a meter from the waiting pair. A clamshell section of the car’s skin opened automatically, creaking an invitation to the commuters. Eogan did not hesitate and ducked inside, immediately placing his right hand upon a rune-decorated console cast into the forward bulkhead. He then sank down into the front seat. Morgan had his choice of any of the five remaining ones in the narrow car.
One look at the vehicle’s interior told Morgan that Reged’s problems were of the major variety. The interior showed signs of repeated patching and was plainly worn out. Two of the three light panels that were recessed overhead were darkened, and all of the seats spilled musty brown fluff from a network of fractured seams. The car emitted a hum that dedicatedly increased to a scream before consenting to roll into the stygian darkness. If the machine had ever possessed headlights, they, too, were victims of the obvious shortage of spare parts. The claustrophobic ride lasted less than five minutes, but Morgan was unable to judge the speed of travel in the midnight tunnel.
Their destination was a platform, identical in every detail to the first, and it rushed at them from beyond the tunnel mouth as if on a collision course. Again, the vehicle argued with its instructions to halt, then submitted with a rusty scrape.
Morgan left the decaying car without regret and trailed Eogan up a staircase and into the vast banquet hall he had visited on the previous evening. They crossed the empty room quickly; the slap of their boots the only sound to break the marble stillness. They trailed down a long, tapestry-hung hallway, then up another wide staircase. Morgan heard the echoes of a man’s laughter from somewhere in the bowels of the house. The hesitant notes of a stringed instrument, carelessly played, emanated from a room ahead. Then, he was in her room.
The robed figure sat on a backless couch, facing a gilt-framed mirror upon which Morgan could see no reflection, only shadows. A small, harp-like instrument leaned against the wall under a venerable hanging, rich with the stitched likeness of golden-haloed men and women, their hands outstretched and raised in supplication to threadbare Roman legionaries; woven white-robed priests and priestesses bore the Celtic Wheel into a carefully-patched heaven.
Connach’s sister chanted a tuneless song and appeared oblivious to Morgan’s presence. Her long, delicate fingers glided over the surface of the peculiar mirror as she crooned, her face held close, as if she expected something to happen. Morgan scarcely drew a full breath, so completely enchanted by her presence even when she was turned away from him that he stared and could not break his gaze away. His guide and companion also remained mute, watching those long-nailed fingers as they searched the secrets of the framed oval.
Her chanting stopped abruptly, and she stretched gracefully and leaned back from the glass. “Morgan,” she called, without turning around. Her voice sent a thrill coursing down his spine. “Come and sit beside me.” She then spoke rapidly in her native tongue to the servant who departed at once. “I’ve sent Eogan for a pitcher of iced wine. I hope you don’t mind, though it is yet before mid-day.”
Morgan was incapable of minding anything at that moment. He lowered himself to sit gingerly next to her, perching on the edge of the couch like a small boy waiting for a piece of undeserved candy. He studied her cowl-shaded face, and she watched him in return, waiting until he was finished.
“What have you found in my visage, Morgan?” she queried, not laughing.
Words tumbled unguarded, unbidden, from his mouth. “Did the others your brother brought here fall in love with you as well?”
Her face darkened, and her reply seemed thoughtful. “No, Morgan. A possessor of the Mysteries is not
for men to love as a man loves a woman.”
Afraid that he had committed a serious error with the beautiful Druid priestess, Morgan redirected the conversation at once, ashamed that a woman almost half his age could disquiet him so thoroughly.
“Ian said you were to teach me. What can I learn from you?”
Her face relaxed slightly but showed no particular relief even after Morgan had deliberately changed the subject. Her young-old eyes held the same puzzling expression that Evans’s eyes had held earlier in the morning. Morgan looked into them and felt a dark barrier fall aside, pulling at him softly insistently.
He was never very comfortable in the presence of beautiful women. It was another invisible gash on his soul, courtesy of a raid on a suspected al-Qaeda camp and a lady correspondent from Reuters. The end result of that relationship had damned him with a decade of gruesome nightmares. Other people with normal lifetime experiences might have pleasant dreams but not Kerry Morgan. All too often when Morgan dreamed about beautiful women, their shapely legs, soft hands, their lips were not always connected to other parts of their bodies. Unbidden replays of explosive death had rendered him completely impotent and raging for years, until Kendra had raised him from his self-made grave. Kendra….
Brigid’s softly accented words broke into Morgan’s disquieting reverie. “You must learn our language if you decide to remain here with us.”
At that moment, Eogan returned with a moisture-beaded clay pitcher and a pair of finely wrought silver goblets. Without waiting for instructions, he decanted a deep, ruby wine that looked infinitely better than the vinegar preferred by the Clan Chiefs and then left the room.
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