Bradley, Marion Zimmer - Shadowgate 02 (16 page)

 
          
Dylan
turned to stare, giving Truth the full benefit of his attention, his lips
pursed in a soundless whistle. "
A Blackburn Circle
? Are you sure?"

 
          
"They'd
been working in the basement of the abandoned building out there—an uncontrolled,
unsecured site—I saw the North Gate sigil on the wall and
somebody'd
done a pretty good job of painting the marks for Laying the Floor of the
Temple
. They probably just walked off and left it
when they were through playing; I'd better go out there as soon as I can and
close it down completely.

 
          
"Stupid
kids!" Truth burst out. "How
could
they?
Playing about with forces they have no comprehension of—and then
surprised when the Unseen gives them a good swift kick in the—"

 
          
"Now,
now—is this the same woman who only about a year ago was telling me that my
ghosthunting
was only an excuse to cater to my obviously
delusional megalomania?"

 
          
Truth's
cheeks turned pink. "It's a good thing I've got you around to yank me down
off my high horse," she said meekly. "But at
Taghkanic
,
of all places."

 
          
"Of
all places," Dylan agreed. "And Hunter
Greyson
was on the
para
-psych track—he should definitely have
known better than to go fooling around like that. Remember the 'Philip'
experiments in
Toronto
back in the seventies? The group generation of
psi
phenomena, including RSPK? Colin would have pinned his ears back if he'd
known—Grey was in his Occult Psychology seminar in his senior year. Come to
that, so was Winter. I've been doing some checking," he added in explanation.

 
          
"Hunter
Greyson
? Winter didn't mention him," Truth said,
frowning.

 
          
"She's
very cagey about letting on what she actually remembers and what she doesn't,
have you noticed? It isn't normal to have memory gaps like that—not without
organic trauma or at least a history of drug abuse," Dylan said.

 
          
"Or
physical abuse," Truth suggested. "Repressed memory—"

 
          
"—will
mask single isolated incidents for which there is no corroborative
reinforcement, not the kind of ongoing abuse that someone would need to just
drop four years of their life. Besides, she was living on campus, and you know
how closely the faculty, proctors, and student services watch those kids. If
she'd exhibited anything like an abuse pattern then, they'd have spotted
it," Dylan said firmly.

 
          
Truth
reached for the uncorked bottle, and Dylan moved to intercept her and pour the
wine himself. Truth smiled at him over her glass.

 
          
"It
sounds like you've done your homework on Winter Musgrave," she
acknowledged. "Should I be jealous? And you never did tell me who Hunter
Greyson
is."

 
          
"Hunter
Greyson's
file is missing from the admissions office,
but most of the faculty still remember him—Professor Rhys even suggested that
Grey'd
stolen his own file; apparently he was known for
pranks like that. Winter Musgrave and Hunter
Greyson
were quite the item their senior year, and with three other students had quite
a close-knit little clique. They ran twenty percent over baseline in group
telepathy experiments— those records are still in the file over at the
Institute."

 
          
"I'd
like to see them," Truth said soberly. "I bet Winter would,
too."

           
"I'd think twice about showing
them to her—at least until I found out what she remembers—and why she can't
remember the rest," Dylan said.

 
          
"Maybe
you're right," Truth said, unconvinced. "I just get the feeling . .
." She paused for a moment, then went on. "That there's something
she needs to do, and not much time left for her to do it in."

 
          
Winter
had been sure she wouldn't sleep, but to her surprise, Truth actually had to
shake her to awaken her, and when she did, Winter found she'd slept for almost
two hours.

 
          
"Don't
look so tragic!" Truth teased. "Dylan says the sauce could use the
extra time, and since I'm usually up at the lab half the night, I'm more used
to late dinners than early ones, and so is Dylan."

 
          
Winter
regarded her dubiously, her mind awash with suspicion and reflexive guilt.

 
          
But
why? She frowned. It was almost as if she were split into two people inside
herself—one with a rational response to events, the other determined to assign
blame for everything, usually to herself.

 
          
"All
right," Winter said with an effort.
If
there's any blame to assign here, it's Truth's, not mine. She's the one who
knows when she wants to eat dinner.
"Just let me wash my face and I'll
be right with you."
I'm not
responsible for the entire world, after all.

 
          
That
defiant vow actually seemed to have some effect; the beclouding guilt receded,
and Winter found that without its choking presence her grasp of those newly won
memories that she'd tested today was stronger— vague and
wavery
still, like something seen through heat-haze, but persisting even in the face
of that inner voice's disapproval.

 
          
Those
people were real. Her past was real—and if the past, as everyone always said,
was a foreign country, then she'd just gotten her passport back.

 
          
It
only remained to make use of it.

 
          
Winter
found herself eating with real appetite—and dinner, she told her inner censor
fiercely, certainly didn't seem to have been ruined by any delay. The pasta
was tender, the sauce was savory and filled with meat, and the bread was still
warm, with a chewy golden crust and soft white interior. They did not talk
about Nuclear Lake or its monster through most of the meal, but toward the end,
when the pasta had been removed and the salad bowl set out, Winter broached the
subject to Truth again.

 
          
"You
said—at the lake—that there was a way to find out what's really causing all
this," she said to Truth.

 
          
Truth
hesitated. "There are some things I can try that I didn't mention
before," she said, sounding faintly reluctant. "Knowing that you've
been involved with the Blackburn Work . . . That changes things."

 
          
The
Blackburn
Work.
All Winter really
knew about it was what she'd read in the book about Truth's father—that and a
confused memory of shadows in candlelight, music and incense. . . .

 
          
And
Hunter
Greyson
.

 
          
"Is—
Was— Was Grey a Satanist, then?" Winter asked hesitantly. "Those
drawings ..."

 
          
"The
Blackburn Work isn't Satanism," Truth corrected her firmly, "any more
than astrophysics is. Thorne—my father—created it—drawing on older sources—to
be a way of knowing; a way of gathering information from the universe. Of
course, it has its risks, but everything does—from climbing
Mount Everest
to crossing the street."

 
          
"It
isn't that far from gathering knowledge to gathering power," Dylan said,
glancing meaningfully at Truth. "As you well know."

 
          
"And
I think I would have noticed if that were so, even after all this time,"
Truth shot back. "Anywhere there is faith, there is a danger of its
perversion."

 
          
"You're
saying you're a psychic," Winter said, her voice quivery as she attempted
to keep disapproval out of it.

 
          
"It's
just as foolish to say you're not when you are, as to say you are when you're
not," Truth said pragmatically. "And haven't you had enough proof
that
psychism
is real?"

 
          
Winter
flinched inwardly. "I'm just . . . crazy," she said defiantly.
"All this—it's coincidence, nothing more. Really."

 
          
"You're
not crazy," Truth contradicted determinedly. "And you don't really
want to be, do you? You're not making things up just to get attention, as so
many so-called psychic
sensitives
do. But that is
what you are—a psychic sensitive. You're having your life invaded by a change
you aren't ready for—a psychic change; and just as a physical growth spurt will
cause aches and pains and make a person clumsy for a while until she adjusts,
you're having problems."

           
"Problems!" Winter
exploded, thinking of the pathetic corpses of birds and squirrels she'd found
on her doorstep and in her house. Was it better to think they were her fault—or
that they were not?

 
          
"Problems,"
Truth repeated firmly. "Some of them are frightening for you—and I admit
they worry me, too, insofar as they don't follow the standard pattern for
poltergeists. There is no conventional treatment for poltergeist phenomena, as
I said—but in your case, considering that you may have been Sealed to the
Circle, there are some other things I would be willing to try, with your consent."

 
          
Winter
poked at the soggy remains of her salad. The thought of madness would have
been almost comforting—madmen were not responsible for their actions, after
all. Truth
Jourdemayne's
insistence on her sanity was
nearly as frightening as her own willingness to surrender to insanity rather
than face reality.

 
          
And
was that what the inner voice—the censor, the spoiler—wanted? Unthinking
surrender?

 
          
"I'll
try anything," Winter said aloud. "Do what you like." Her voice
was as hard and steady as ice.

 
          
But
Truth refused to take the matter farther that night, saying that it would be
too dangerous for her to proceed with Winter so close to exhaustion. She and
Dr. Palmer drove Winter home in Dr. Palmer's car.

 
          
"This
is a lovely place," Truth said, standing in the front hall of
Greyangels
. "But it's wide open."

 
          
"I
can't seem to keep the doors and windows locked," Winter said, with the
odd feeling she was misunderstanding Truth's meaning. "I just keep closing
windows and hoping for the best."

 
          
"That
isn't—" Truth began, and stopped. "Forgive me—you came to me for help
and here I am proselytizing, which is utterly foolish. At least let me take a
look around and see that everything's all right before we leave." Without
waiting for a reply, Truth started up the stairs, and Winter was left staring
at Dr. Palmer.

 
          
Excuse me, but do you know that your
girlfriend's delusional?
a sarcastic inner voice prompted her. Aloud, she
said only, "I feel as if I'm missing half the conversation."

 
          
"The
absent referent," Dr. Palmer said, smiling. "I was here a few times
when Professor
MacLaren
owned this place; I think
you'll probably want a fire tonight."

 
          
"You
knew the owners?" Winter said, following Dr. Palmer into the parlor. A
fire was laid in the fireplace, and she tried to remember if she'd done that
this morning, but somehow the memory wouldn't come.

 
          
"Colin
MacLaren
lived here while he was the director of the
Institute," Dr. Palmer said, kneeling by the hearth. "I know he sold
it afterward, but I'm not sure who to. It's a great old place, isn't it?"