“Although Ms. Musgrave never submitted herself for a formal evaluation, Dr. Palmer and I concluded that the likely explanation for the majority of the presenting phenomena—including an event which we both witnessed—was adult-onset poltergeist phenomena, triggering event unknown.”
“For most of the phenomena,” Dr. Atheling paraphrased. “But not all?”
Although the day was warm, involuntarily Truth hunched her shoulders against the remembered cold of the magickal attack launched against her when she and Winter had summoned the Elemental. “But not all,” she agreed.
“Let us not fence any longer,” Dr. Atheling said abruptly. “You are aware of who I am, and I am quite aware of what you are. What do you know of the Elemental sending that has attached itself to Winter?”
Truth carefully kept her face from showing her surprise, though such an Adept as Dr. Atheling could certainly read it in her aura even more easily than upon her face.
“That it exists,” she said, and half shrugged, embarrassed by her ignorance. “That it wants … something, though we haven’t yet been able to find out what. That it draws its strength from the blood of the animals it kills—larger ones as its power grows. And that it was sent by someone to whom Winter has an emotional connection.” Truth watched Dr. Atheling closely.
“Do you know who sent it?” he asked, his tone mild once more.
“Do you?”
“No,” he said, “and if you did, you would not be here.”
It was no more than the truth, Truth admitted to herself. “I need to know,” she said slowly, choosing her words with care. “Because it’s dangerous. And because it seems to become more powerful with each death—able to command larger blood sacrifices. And because I don’t think that Winter has any control over it.”
AN HOUR LATER, Truth drove homeward, her mind busy. Though she had learned a great deal, perilously little of it seemed to have any immediate bearing on Winter’s problem. Dr. Atheling, too, had marked the magickal child for what it was while Winter was still at Fall River, though he was as ignorant as Truth of its ultimate origin. Bound by a combination of his oaths as an Adept and his oaths as a physician, he had not opposed the creature directly, though he had done what he could to help Winter cope with its effects, and Truth was convinced that the Elemental’s power and hunger had increased sharply once Winter had left his sphere of influence.
Back where I started, Truth thought to herself. No answer to what was chasing Winter—and why.
Only she was not quite as ignorant as before. There was now the puzzle of Dr. Atheling himself to consider. Truth’s path and those of the others who studied the Unseen World must inevitably cross if her life continued in the direction it was going. And even after more than a year, Truth wasn’t sure how she felt about that.
Though Truth Jourdemayne was only a beginner in the study of the Occult—her gifts having been more a matter of inheritance than training—the months she had spent researching her father’s life and his magickal discipline had given her some understanding of the many different coteries who studied that group of arts and philosophy invariably lumped together under the catch-all label “The Occult.” Meeting Dr. Atheling made Truth more aware than ever of the fact that, though she thought she moved alone through a labyrinth of scholarship and phenomena, she was in fact only one Seeker among many. Far older than the Blackburn Work, and the source for much of it, was Dr. Atheling’s Right Hand Path, the Western Mystery Tradition epitomized by the White Lodges. Though the trappings of each Lodge were different, each traced its ultimate origin back to the learning of Ancient Egypt, and beyond that, to storied Atlantis herself.
Instructed as she was in the Blackburn Work, Truth had made little contact with other traditions. Thorne Blackburn had been a rogue and a rebel against that wellspring of tradition, believing that humankind should seek perfection in the world they had been given rather than seeking an alien perfection in realms that only a chosen few could aspire to—and then only if transformed by a lifetime’s rigorous training. The White Lodge in which he had received his earliest instruction had cast him out for such ideas, but though they had pronounced anathema on him, Thorne had not, as many believed, turned to the Dark. The Left Hand Path in all of its guises had, in fact, as little use for Blackburn’s philosophy as did the Right.
In the Unseen World, as elsewhere, Truth Jourdemayne walked alone.
As if entirely of its own volition, the Saturn moved left off the highway, toward an exit that led to a different destination than Glastonbury, New York.
There was one place she could still go to for answers.
THE PADLOCKS and chains were back on the iron gates and the gravel drive showed the marks of several seasons’ neglect when Truth drove up to Shadow’s Gate and parked in front of the gatehouse. Thorne Blackburn’s estate was once more in legal limbo; for his children to inherit was now a matter of tedious legal formalities that would take years. For now, the 100-acre parcel remained untouched, a memorial and a monument to the Blackburn legend.
Truth got out of her car, admitting ruefully to herself that her dressy suit would probably not survive this expedition. There was a certain freedom, however, in doing what you wanted no matter how you were dressed. The question was who was to be the master, as Humpty Dumpty had once said to Alice, and Truth felt that her desires—even her whims—should be more important than a suit of clothes.
It was easy enough to circumvent the gatehouse with its forbidding iron bars, and walk along the fence until the formidable iron spikes became a low fieldstone wall—easy enough to climb over, even in a narrow skirt. A caretaker lived on the property and saw to keeping the grass cut back, so getting across the lawn wasn’t a problem. Truth walked up the hill toward the house.
The contrast between Fall River and Shadow’s Gate was enormous. Fall River was mannered and manicured, groomed and tamed until it lost all individuality. Shadow’s Gate belonged to itself far more than it did to any human force: Since the first Europeans had come to the Hudson Valley and fallen beneath the spell of this land just as their native-born brothers had, Shadow’s Gate had ruled the lives and the destinies of all within its reach.
Truth cut back to the drive once she was well past the gatehouse, and walked on a gently upward slope through woods in full spring leaf. Half an hour brought her to the crest of the small rise from which she’d gained her first sight of Shadow’s Gate less than three years ago.
The old house still stood in a hollow of ground surrounded by low hills and rambling woodland. To the right Truth could see the boxwood maze whose contours concealed secret passages that would let her into the house itself. The maze was noticeably overgrown now, though some attempt had been made to keep it clipped back. Truth shook her head sadly. Someone would have to do something about Shadow’s Gate, and soon. But her destination today was not the house, nor anything that lay close beside it. It took her almost another hour to reach her real destination.
Here in the woods behind the house lay the henge Thorne Blackburn and his acolytes had made: a horseshoe shape of man-sized granite pillars in a forest clearing. At the head of the circle, in the place the thirteenth pillar should have been, stood a massive oak tree, its bark thick and twisted with age. Carved into the wood, at the level of her heart, Truth could see the symbol of the Circle of Truth, like and yet unlike the symbols that had been painted at Nuclear Lake. With some difficulty, Truth clambered into the circle and placed her hand over the sign. The wood was warm and alive beneath her hand. She stroked it meditatively.
What should she do? Should she summon the magickal child here? This was the place of her greatest power, where her mother’s and father’s heritage combined—if she had any hope of containing or commanding the creature her hope was here, not at the Institute.
But there was only a slight chance she could prevail, even here. The Elemental had been sent against Winter; it drew its power from the very fact of her existence to such an extent that Truth wondered
if anyone but Winter could possibly destroy it. If only Winter were willing to accept her link with that nightmare sending, and use it …
Truth remembered the steely ice-maiden who had come to the Institute for help. Even at her most vulnerable, Winter Musgrave did not seem to be the sort of woman who could yield, gracefully or otherwise. The Elemental would surely destroy her before she would ever accept it into herself. Truth leaned against the tree and closed her eyes.
… Wait …
It might almost have been the wind in the leaves that carried with it that sense of hushed expectation. Truth cocked her head, listening, but heard nothing further. Still, she had the answer she’d instinctively sought. This fight was not hers. Not yet. Perhaps never.
Truth circled the trunk with her arms, and rested her cheek against the bark of the tree. For a long time she stood like that, unmoving, the sun that shone down falling equally on her and the great oak. The sense of peace that she felt welled up from the roots of the earth, carrying with it the promise that there was time for all things. Time, even, to discover her own purpose in the world.
At last Truth roused herself from her trance and stood away from the tree. She felt rested, refreshed—and certain, at last, of her proper course. She turned to go, but before she left the enchanted circle Truth spoke aloud for the first time.
“Thank you, Father.”
14
All the World is Winter.
He disappeared in the dead of winter.
—W. H. AUDEN
DRIVING ONCE MORE through Glastonbury in the direction of the college, Winter wondered if coming back here had been a mistake. It felt too much like saying good-bye.
She had never said good-bye to Grey.
Winter set her jaw and concentrated on moving her car through the light traffic on the road approaching Glastonbury. Her bandaged hands were slippery on the wheel, and she grasped it carefully. It had been weeks since she’d left; it was late spring now, less than two months to the end of the school year. There was a certain grisly justice to coming back here now: It was almost as if she were returning to college after spring break, fourteen years too late. She had never finished the part of her life that Taghkanic represented.
And now, when desperation compelled her to go back to what should have been over long ago and stir up old ghosts, she found that the shades of those innocent college days had become something … darker. If coming here felt as if she were saying good-bye, it was because she was. All that was left after she’d seen Truth was to go back to San Francisco, find Rhiannon somehow and receive Cassie’s message, and then—
Grey. The Elemental. Images tangled in Winter’s mind, a web of choking guilt and responsibility that seemed as if it would grow tighter forever. What could she have changed in the past to make the present other than it was?
There was no answer to that; there never had been an answer for as long as people have been asking that question. But if Winter could not find some way to change the present, there would be no future at all.
For anyone.
SHE PULLED HER latest rental car into the guest parking lot facing the Institute and parked, an action which brought back the memory of her previous visits here. Despite her constant overwhelming impression of inadequacy, Winter knew rationally that she had come a very long way in a few short weeks—from dependent ex-mental patient to a woman who could reclaim—and take responsibility for—the demons of her own past.
Now all that was left was to say good-bye.
Winter gathered all her poise and self-possession and walked up the steps and into the building.
School was in session; the Institute’s outer office was filled with milling students, all of whom seemed to have some urgent business with the Bidney Institute staff. As she came in, Winter glanced at one girl with flaming red hair who wore a brilliant blue stone at her throat. CZ, Winter thought automatically—the pendant was far too brilliant to be blue topaz. With some difficulty, she pushed herself to the front of the crowd and got the receptionist’s attention.
“Is Truth Jourdemayne in?”
Meg Winslow’s startled glance was one more confirmation to Winter of how much she had changed—or perhaps only a tribute to her new wardrobe; Ralph Lauren instead of Calvin Klein; soft, romantic pieces in hopeful pale colors, like the flowers that bloomed in the spring. Winter smiled tightly to herself. Even if the rest of her life was to be a losing fight, she intended to make a good showing. Jack had always said that showing up for the fight won half the battle.
She wondered where he was now. Jack Thoroughgood, her earliest mentor, had retired from The Street after a career of many years a few months before she’d left for Fall River. He’d lasted at Arkham Miskatonic King long enough to become a legend; job burnout on The Street was nearly as high as it was for cops and air-traffic controllers, and to survive at all was itself a victory.
With a wrench, Winter brought her mind back to the present. She couldn’t afford to go drifting off here.
“Just a minute, please,” Meg said. She started to turn away to deal with someone else.
It was irrational, after Winter had come through so much, that a brush-off from a harried receptionist should have the power to upset her, but it did. As Meg turned away, Winter felt the thrill of power spider-walk up her spine. Ignore me, will you? She thought longingly of raising Cain—in a psychic storm Meg’s phone would shatter, her computer explode, all the electronic marvels of the twentieth century turn against her …
Suddenly Winter realized how easy doing just that would be: Her psychokinesis was truly an extension of her thoughts now. Hers was the power, under the control of her conscious mind at last: to punish, to avenge …
Very slowly, Winter set her bandaged hand on the counter that separated them and pressed, welcoming the pain of her wounds. Yes, she could hurt Meg and everyone else in this room. With a snap of her fingers she could summon the lightning and turn this room to a storm of poltergeist rage worse than the one that had destroyed her apartment. But if she did, for the first time in her life it would be she, Winter Musgrave, who was consciously responsible—not the hate-serpent, whose spasmodic bursts of psychokinetic rage had randomly tyrannized her through childhood and beyond. Her.
Winter drew a shaky breath. She had the sense of stepping back at the last instant from the brink of some unimaginable abyss that had opened just beneath her feet. She had claimed her power and acknowledged her anger. Now Winter had to admit that her anger could kill, and vow to chain it forever. Any other choice would make her no better than the monster who had sent the artificial Elemental to stalk her. With an effort, she stepped away from Meg and took a deep breath.
“Winter! I’m so glad you came back!” Truth cried warmly. She stepped through the press of students, holding out her hand in greeting. “Isn’t it a zoo today? Dr. Roantree’s running an opening screening, and everybody wants to be psychic,” Truth finished with a sigh.
“Why do it?” Winter wondered.
“It’s the closest thing to a cross-section we’re going to get in this field, and if you don’t have a statistical baseline, how can you tell when you’ve deviated from it?” Truth said wryly. “But come on back to my office; I’ll get us both coffee.”
LEAVING WINTER in her office, Truth headed back to the coffee machine. She’d actually been watching for long enough to see Winter win the struggle with her own anger. If it had been necessary, Truth would have intervened—in the last several months, she had set enough wards around the Institute to enable her to pull the plug on most consciously directed psychic assaults—but she was glad she had not had to. Self-control was the first step on the Path; to see that Winter had come so far on her own was a greater relief to Truth than she would have realized.
“I’M so GLAD you came back,” Truth said, coming back into her office a few moments later with precariously balanced cups and a plate of cookies. “I like your new look,” she added.
“I’m afraid my old look—wha
t’s left of it—is locked in a car trunk somewhere in San Francisco,” Winter said.
“San Francisco? Was that where you went? I didn’t know what to think when you went off that way …”
Winter made an abortive gesture, rising to unburden Truth. “I had to find the others,” she said, setting the cups carefully on Truth’s desk. The bandages made them slippery to handle, but she knew she was lucky to have escaped as lightly as she had. The glass on her apartment floor could have sliced through tendons as easily as through flesh. “Find them. Talk to them. Find myself—and doesn’t that sound like something our mothers would say? Not that my mother ever would have,” Winter finished with a trace of bitterness.
“It sounds as if you’ve been busy,” Truth said neutrally.
Winter looked away, her manner suddenly stiff. “Not busy enough,” she said roughly. “Cassie—I knew her in college—is dead.”
Truth was nearly as familiar with Winter’s Taghkanic days by now as Winter was. “Cassilda Chandler?” she asked carefully. Winter nodded. But Cassie, like Winter, was in her thirties.
“It killed her,” Winter said, and there was no need to explain what “it” was. “It burned her to death in her bookstore in San Francisco. They said she knew it was coming …” Abruptly Winter covered her face with her hands and wept; the fierce angry pain of one who took every loss as a personal failure. After a few moments she sat up and took a deep breath, wiping at her eyes. Truth pushed the box of Kleenex across her desk, and Winter pulled out a fistful and dabbed at her face.
“I’m sorry. But it’s my fault she’s dead.”
“I don’t know whether it is or not.” Truth selected her words with careful honesty. “But I do know that you didn’t deliberately choose her death. I know it sounds inadequate, but would you like to talk about it?”
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