Bradley, Marion Zimmer - Shadowgate 02 (47 page)

 
          
True
to her word, after a long night spent giving advice and discussion, Truth was
driving Winter down to JFK to catch her flight to
San Francisco
.

 
          
"Okay.
I'll try to make this as simple as possible. Occultists believe in the
existence of what is called the
subtle
body;
what it means, in essence, is that every person has what amounts to
two bodies; one here on the Plane of Manifestation, and one on the Astral
Plane."

 
          
"It
sounds like science fiction," Winter said tightly. Truth sighed.

 
          
"I
assure you, it's entirely real. I'm not even saying you have to believe in it,
but you asked me a question, and this is the only answer I have. And what it
amounts to, in your case, is that a magician has somehow linked this
Elemental—which has much of its existence on the Astral— with your
subtle body.
It's as attached to you as
if you were at two ends of an extension cord."

 
          
"What
about my soul?" Winter said, almost at random. "Isn't that really
what you're talking about here?"

           
Truth grimaced. She knew Winter was
only trying to change the subject. She'd spent hours last night explaining to
Winter how best to confront the artificial
Elemental's
threat, but one night's lecture could not take the place of years of study.

 
          
"No;
the soul is—occultists believe that the soul is something different entirely.
Look. We don't have enough time for this explanation as it is," Truth
said, striving for a light tone, "and if we start talking about the soul
we'll never get through it all. Let's get back to the construct. Do you have
any questions about what to do once you've summoned it?"

 
          
Winter
shrugged. "It seems fairly basic; say 'Here monster-monster-monster,' and
see what happens. And then—" She fell silent, grimacing. "It all
seems so ridiculous, except when that thing's actually in front of me."

 
          
"I
know," Truth said gently. "But Winter, you have to try to concentrate."

 
          
"On
communicating with it," Winter said bleakly. "On asking it what it
wants. On sucking it in through this astral garden hose that connects us.
Frankly, I'd rather drink industrial waste."

 
          
"Your
choice," Truth reminded her, and Winter snorted. "I wish you weren't
making this trip back to
California
. It makes you so vulnerable. There's a place near here where you could
try to call it; I'd be right there," Truth added.

 
          
"No.
I'll do this alone. It isn't fair to make you face it again," Winter said.

 
          
Truth
didn't remind Winter that, if Winter died and the creature were still at large,
Truth would be doing exactly that. She suspected that Winter already knew.

 
          
"Well,
after all, I can hardly sit in your office calling everyone in San Francisco
and asking them if their name's Rhiannon, and if they used to know a friend of
mine, and if the letter they say they have is real, a forgery, or even exists
at all," Winter drawled defensively. "If I go back to where I saw her
before, she may still be haunting Cassie's bookstore."

 
          
With
a belated pang of guilt, Winter remembered that her car was still sitting in
Long-Term Parking at SFO ... at least she hoped it was. Her current rental car
was sitting parked safely in Truth's driveway; returning it was Truth's
problem now.

           
"And if you do find her, but
the message is lost—or has nothing to do with Grey?" Truth asked gently.

 
          
"Then
I'll come back here," Winter said with bright falseness.

 
          
And
though Truth knew she lied, there was nothing she could do to stop her. Because
finding Grey was still their last, best—only—hope.

 
          
She'd
relied on the comfort of Truth's mere presence more than she'd known, Winter
realized. From the moment she stepped away from the car at the drop-off zone at
JFK, Winter had felt lost and alone. It was easier to pretend bravery when
there was someone else there to be fooled by the act. Now there was only
Winter, all alone, who had even less faith than Truth seemed to in her ability
to do anything but die at the bidding of some Otherworld creature. A creature
whose nature and desires she didn't understand, sent for a purpose she had
never known.

 
          
Winter
picked up her boarding pass and proceeded to the First Class lounge. She
wouldn't reach
San Francisco
until this evening, though because of the three-hour time difference
she would arrive only three hours after she'd left instead of six. Rummaging
through her purse, she pulled out the card that Paul Frederick had given her on
her last ill-starred visit.
Handmade
Music.
That was the place to start.

 
          
It
began to rain. Small showers of droplets clung to the boarding-lounge window, obscuring
the view of tarmac and the waiting planes. The inhospitable vista was the
perfect counterpoint to her mood.

 
          
The
rain seemed to be lying in wait for her; Winter stepped out of the terminal
into the dusk to be greeted by a
blowy
drizzle that
was either a very light rain or a very heavy fog. In either event, the weather
was cold, damp, and unwelcoming. She shivered inside her cashmere barn coat.
The weather wouldn't make driving any easier, either.

 
          
She'd
tried Handmade Music's number from the airport and gotten no answer. She tried
not to let that discourage her; it was a setback, not a defeat. She could
always drive to the neighborhood and see what she could find on her own.
Without too much difficulty she located her car and paid the exorbitant fee for
losing her ticket without a murmur, as if money no longer had any meaning. In a
perverse way, Winter found the probability of her death wonderfully liberating.
There were no more appearances to keep up.

           
As if what was left of her life was
truly charmed, she reached the corner of
Haight
and
Ashbury
streets as quickly and easily as if she were a
long-time resident of the city. There was even a parking space, and Winter slid
her car into it, shutting down the lights and engine before it occurred to her
that perhaps she ought not to be here at all. The streetlight reflected a
thousand points of light off the raindrops that starred her windshield now that
the wipers were stilled, and all the light was gone from the sky.

 
          
Winter
looked around. The street that had looked merely shabby and down-at-heels by
daylight looked positively sinister now. Though she would have walked
unhesitatingly through rougher-looking neighborhoods back home, Winter was off
her own turf here and she knew it. Hundreds of tourists were killed every year
simply through not being able to read the warning signs of urban violence in an
unfamiliar city. The sensible thing to do would be to drive away, find a hotel,
and wait for morning and the chance to try Paul Frederick's number again.

 
          
Yet,
even while Winter was trying to convince herself to follow this sensible
course, a gleam of light in her rearview mirror caught her attention. Turning
around in her seat, she saw the warm yellow glow of a lighted storefront.
Before she had time for second thoughts, Winter was out of her car. Locking it
swiftly, she turned up the sidewalk in the direction of the light,
half-running through the spring rain.

 
          
The
Green Man was still a welcoming oasis; Winter did not even stop to remember
that this was where she'd had her disastrous interview with Rhiannon as she
lunged up the steps and pushed open the door.

 
          
It
was warm and dry inside the cafe, in sharp contrast to the rainy darkness
outside, and the air was filled with the smell of baking bread. The
stained-glass panels hanging in the windows were dark and glittering now, but
the polished wood of the spool tables and oak counters glowed brightly, and the
plants hanging everywhere filled the place with life. Winter stopped, blinking
a little at the brightness. She brushed her hair back from her face, feeling
raindrops spatter beneath her hand.

 
          
Do something. Don't just stand here like a
mooncalf.

 
          
Despite
the location, the cafe had a good following; most of the tables were full, and
the murmur of conversation and the clink of tableware formed a lulling cushion
of sound. Winter looked around. Rhiannon had seemed to know this place when
they had been here before; perhaps
they
knew
her?

 
          
There
was a booth free; Winter moved toward it and sat down, grateful to be shielded
from the illusion of prying eyes. Nobody had noticed her and nobody cared.

 
          
But
in that much, she was wrong.

 
          
The
waitress—a young woman with straight blond hair, dressed in tie-dye and a
rainbow-colored crochet vest—had barely brought her coffee when a stranger
approached the booth.

 
          
"Hello,"
he said. "Do you remember me? I'm Paul Frederick; we met the last time you
were here."

 
          
The
coincidence did not surprise her; it was as if on some level Winter had been
expecting him to be here. She smiled invitingly and gestured.

 
          
"Yes,
I remember you. I don't know if we were ever properly introduced. I'm Winter
Musgrave. Won't you sit down?"

 
          
Frederick
smiled. "Actually, I'm here with my
wife. Won't you join us?"

 
          
When
Winter collected her coffee and moved to the
Fredericks
' table she received another surprise. The
petite brunette seated with him was someone she knew.

 
          
"You're
Emily Barnes, aren't you? The pianist?"

 
          
Husband
and wife looked at each other, and Emily laughed. "I suppose you're right,
Frodo, and I should stop pretending that nobody knows." She rose
gracefully to her feet and held out her hand to Winter. "Yes, I am. If
you've heard of me, I hope you've enjoyed my work."

 
          
Winter
took the hand and clasped it gently, out of respect for the talent in those
strong fingers. "Very much. I saw you a few years ago in
Japan
, when you were on tour with the symphony.
You opened with
Anstey's
Variations on a Theme for Harpsichord."

 
          
Emily's
smile broadened. "Dear Simon! I always love his work—even though I think
he writes some of those transitions just to torment me. He was my teacher, you
know."

 
          
Winter
smiled, and the three of them sat down. There was no one who loved music,
either classical or modern, who didn't know the modern-day fable of Simon
Anstey
and Emily Barnes. At first his
protegee
,
Emily was now coming to be considered the foremost interpreter of his work.

           
The fairy-tale symmetry of the story
was marred only by the fact that the legendary musician-turned-composer had married
not Emily, but her older sister Leslie, several years before Emily herself had
married. But when Winter had imagined the poised, professional Emily's husband,
someone like the elfish Paul Frederick had been the farthest thing from her
mind.

 
          
"And
this is Winter Musgrave,
Em
. She was a friend of
Cassie's," Paul Frederick—Frodo?—said.

 
          
"Oh,
I'm so sorry." Emily Barnes's eyes filled with genuine sympathy. "I
know that saying it was a dreadful tragedy seems so inadequate, but Cassie's
death is such a great loss to so many people. Everyone loved her."