Bradley, Marion Zimmer - Shadowgate 04 (17 page)

 
          
Colin
brandished his gun and roared out the first words that came into his mind and
heart, rewarded by the sight of the robed and hooded figures that clustered
around the altar scattering like the frightened sheep that most of them were.
Claire lay on the altar, bound and half-naked, and she gazed at him with an
expression in which relief and fierce triumph were mingled.

 
          
But
though the others ran, Toller Hasloch stood firm. He faced Colin across
Claire's body, his drawn face white and fanatical, colorless eyes glittering
in the candlelight.

 
          
Carefully
Colin slid the hammer back down and transferred the gun to his left hand.

 
          
Hasloch
did not move as Colin walked over to the altar. A few quick cuts with a
pocketknife freed Claire from her bonds, and Colin draped his trench-coat
around her shoulders. She slid off the altar, glaring blue murder at Hasloch,
who seemed as immovable as the carven Rune-Christ.

 
          
Claire
stepped away from the altar, never taking her eyes off Hasloch as she came to
stand behind Colin.

 
          
The
boy took a deep breath, assuming his cocky facade with an effort.

 
          
"Okay,
Professor. The game is yours. You're more ingenious than I gave you credit for.
No one will, of course, believe you
—
or Crazy Claire
—
if either of you chooses to
talk."

 
          
Colin
smiled bleakly. "Your youthful inexperience is showing, sonny boy. I'm not
going to talk to anyone. I'm just going to pull your plug. I suggest you stay
right where you are unless you actually want me to have to explain shooting you
to somebody. Believe me, I take you seriously enough for that."

 
          
He
raised his right hand in an ancient Sign, never letting the gun waver. Hasloch
stared at the air where it had been drawn, the forced smile fading from his
face.

 
          
The
difference between Toller Hasloch and the average occult dabbler was that
Hasloch's rituals
worked.
Toller Hasloch had Power, and most of the reason
for that was the allies and servants his young
Temple
could claim on the Astral.
Destroy it, and Hasloch's power was gone. Consecrate the place where the
Astral
Order
Castle
had stood, and Hasloch
could not rebuild it without help that he was not likely to receive on the
heels of his failure.

 
          
Hasloch's
face went white as he realized what Colin was doing. One hand went to the
ornate dagger at his waist, the other to the medallion that hung about his
neck.

 
          
And
the battle was joined.

 
          
For
Colin MacLaren, without Astral Sight to guide him, the battle occurred in a
double realm: that of the trained disciplined imagination, which forced the
Will against the coiled Dragon of the ancient Darkness in the form of a shining
White Eagle, and that of the mundane world, in which Colin held the revolver
trained steadily on Toller Hasloch as the wail of police sirens
—
summoned by whom?
—
grew louder from the
distance.

 
          
After
each clash the Black Dragon tried to diminish itself; to transform into
something small and ordinary and harmless, something that would be left alone.
Each time the White Eagle refused to claim a victory that would allow even the
weakest offspring of the Dragon to survive. And at last the shadows were all
banished, and the White Light of the Eternal and Immutable Word roared through
all the corners of the Desolation where the
Black
Tower
had been.

 
          
When
all hope of victory was gone, Hasloch fell back against his altar, tears of
frightened rage coursing down his face. The skirl of a siren winding down in front
of the house could be heard, very faintly, through the walls.

 
          
"I'll
see you in jail for this!" he cried, his voice cracking. "You'll be
dismissed from the university
—
you'll never teach again
—
"

 
          
"Your
mother wears army boots," Claire snapped, her voice hoarse with anger.
"It's two against one
—
and do you think people are going to take a gander at this
movie set of yours and take anything you say
seriously}"

 
          
"I
believe the police are here," Colin said quietly. "Your friends in
the robes must have panicked."

 
          
Even
through the draperies and the false wall, the sound of shouts from the floor
above could be heard.

 
          
"Hasloch,
your friends are probably going to talk. It's up to Claire whether she chooses
to press charges in relation to this evening's silliness, but if you'll take my
advice, you'll get rid of your nasty little toys before the City of
Berkeley
comes up with a search
warrant. The war may be over, son, but nobody likes a Nazi."

 
          
Hasloch
simply glared, his face so white and furious that for a moment Colin actually
thought he might suffer a seizure and fall dead right there. But he only
dragged off his tabard and flung it down, then unbelted his dagger and pulled
the robe off over his head. Beneath the robe he was wearing street clothes. The
medallion gleamed against his red sweater for an instant before he scooped it
beneath his shirt with shaking hands.

 
          
He
averted his eyes from Colin and Claire with an effort that was almost physical
and staggered away without a word, disappearing into the wings of the temple.
Apparently there was a second entrance and exit to the cellar.

 
          
"What,
no parting words?" Claire said with ragged cheer. "No threats of
revenge?"

 
          
Her
knees buckled and Colin put an arm around her shoulders, only then remembering
that he still held the pistol. He shoved it quickly into his pocket. He had a
permit for it, come to that, and there was still a number in
Washington
that he could call for
backup, something that would probably annoy the chief of police no end. But it
was much better if no one asked any questions, even if Colin did have answers
ready.

           
"He'll probably phone me with
them later tonight," Colin said. "Claire, you were wonderful
—
I wish I'd never subjected
you to this
—
"

 
          
"Don't
say that," the girl interrupted quickly, pulling the borrowed trenchcoat
more tightly around herself. "My generation is the one that's always
talking about saving the world, right? Well, for once I've managed to actually
do
something that made a difference, and that felt good. Sure, I was scared
—
heck, I was terrified. But
it needed doing. And I'll do it again
—
if you'll let me."

 
          
She
held out her hand.

 
          
"The
Most High grant that something like this never needs doing again," Colin
said. "But if it does, I'll call upon your promise, Claire
—
I swear it."

 
          
He
clasped her hand and shook it, a solemn promise.

 
          
"And
now I suppose we should go upstairs and talk to the police. Someone must have
called them when the rest of Hasloch's coven bolted
—
I wonder what they think is
going on here? I imagine they're having visions of decadent drug orgies; I
wonder if the sworn word of a professor in the Psychology Department will carry
any weight with them. Shall we go and see?"

 
          
Claire
snickered, a muffled half-involuntary noise. "Oh, yeah. Certainly, Professor.
And while we're explaining things, maybe somebody has a pair of shoes I can
borrow to go with the trenchcoat."

 
          
The
explanations required
—
to the
Berkeley
police, to the chancellor
of the University, and to the head of Colin's department
—
were long and tedious, and
Colin MacLaren celebrated Christmas with the addition of an official letter of
censure to his personnel file.

 
          
It
was a long time before he connected the evening and its aftermath with the
information he gleaned from the newspapers four days later: President Kennedy
had increased the number of military advisors that he was sending to a far-off
place called Viet-Nam.

 
          
But
twenty-four months and thirteen days after that November night, Colin did think
about Toller Hasloch again.

BERKELEY
,  1961

 
          
AND 
SO  IT  BEGAN,  AS  EASILY AS  THAT.  
WHAT  COLIN  OFFERED  ME  WAS something I had been looking
for all my life; it was nothing less than a lode-stone to steer myself by.

 
          
It
wasn't in any sense that Colin became my
guru
—
how archaic that word seems
now, though when I first met him it was years away from gaining general
currency
—
since to both of our regrets, I never found it in my heart
to follow the teachings to which I knew he had dedicated his life. It was more
as if, if the world could contain a man like Colin MacLaren, it was a very
different sort of world than the one in which I had previously believed
—
a world in which it was
possible to build for the future, in which cause and effect were not the product
of sadistic whimsy.

 
          
I
believe that if I had not met Colin, I would never have met Peter, because the
woman I was before Colin entered my life would simply never have believed that
she deserved him. For so long I'd been living from day to day, simply
surviving without suffering some new disaster, that having my affairs so easily
set in order gave me a freedom that those born happy
—
and lucky
—
can hardly imagine. But
suddenly the world was new, and I joined the rest of my generation in the
unreasonable hope that progress was forever, and that peace was something we
could achieve. How simple that faith was to embrace
—
and how strongly it would
be tested in the years to come, both in our lives and in the history of our
era.

BERKELEY
,  1962

Ah, for a heart less native to high Heaven, A hooded eye,
for jesses and restraint, Or for a will accipitrine to pursue!

—
FRANCIS THOMPSON

 
          
IN
THE SPRING OF 1962 AN AMERICAN ORBITED THE EARTH FOR THE FIRST time. That
autumn there were riots in
Mississippi
and federal troops in the
streets. In summer a film goddess died, her short tragic life and self-destructive
end serving almost as a template for all those who would come afterward, those
focal points of their generation's dreams who would be consumed by love as the
phoenix by the fire and lead the swift radiant lives of moths dancing with the
flames.

 
          
That
was the autumn that an entire nation looked into the fire: the October that
the world stood on the verge of the nuclear hellfire that would write the last
chapter in human history in a brief, bright, eclipse of the sun. There were
Russian missiles ninety miles off the
Florida
coast. The Russians
promised war.

 
          
And
when it did not happen, the West breathed a shaken sigh of relief. . . and
America
looked to her young,
invincible president to strike the last blow in the Cold War, as well as the
first.

 
          
That
was the year that Claire London married Peter Moffat.

 
          
"Colin,
this is Peter." Claire presented her young man with shy pride, blushing
as she did so. Peter had been a topic of conversation between Colin and Claire
for several weeks now, and after a certain amount of insistence on Colin's
part, Claire had agreed to bring Peter to meet him. An afternoon mixer given by
a mutual friend provided the perfect opportunity for the two men to meet.

 
          
"I'm
pleased to meet you, Professor," Peter said, holding out his hand.

 
          
"I
hope I can get you to call me 'Colin,'" Colin said, taking Peter Moffat's
hand. Peter's grip was firm and direct, and Colin found himself liking the
young man very much.

 
          
Peter
Moffat was a young man in his middle twenties, a few years older than Claire.
He had light brown hair and hazel eyes, and radiated a steadiness of purpose
that must be one of the reasons Claire was so attracted to him
—
at least if his Outer Self
was any indication of the inner.

 
          
Having
brought them together, Claire vanished in the direction of the bar. The party
was mostly the younger faculty, the usual mavericks from the Drama and English
Departments, wives, and older students.

 
          
"I
hope I'm not telling tales out of school if I say that Claire thinks a lot of
you," Colin observed, looking around the room.

 
          
"She
thinks a lot
of you,"
Peter corrected firmly. "You, and Dr.
Margrave
—
you could have knocked me over with a feather when she
told me she'd met Simon Anstey! I've got all of his albums. I used to play the
piano
—
nothing
like that, of course
—
"

 
          
The
flow of small talk was interrupted by Claire's return. She carried three
glasses awkwardly balanced between her hands, two sherries and a tall lemonade.
Colin was mildly surprised when she handed the lemonade to Peter.

 
          
"I'm
going on duty in a few hours," Peter explained, noting Colin's glance.

 
          
"Peter's
with the Berkeley Police," Claire said. Her tone turned faintly chiding,
"I
told
you, Colin."

 
          
"So
you did," Colin admitted, smiling. "And I'm the first to admit that I
have the most perniciously bad memory. So you plan on a career in law enforcement,
Peter?"

 
          
"Well,
sir
—
Colin
—
I'm still in uniform, but
I'm taking the exams, and I hope to make detective in not too many years,"
Peter answered, looking toward Claire. "It's a hard life for an officer's
wife
—
I
won't deny that
—
and I'd be lying if I didn't admit that a lot of marriages
don't last
—
"

 
          
"Peter!"
Claire said, laughing and protesting at once.

 
          
"Are
you two talking about marriage already?" Colin asked. He felt a faint
pang. Not jealousy precisely; but marriage was such a big step, and Claire was
so young. . . .

 
          
She's
twenty years old,
Colin reminded himself.
That's old enough to take
charge of your life. When you were twenty, you'd already killed three men. Not
that that's a fair analogy. . . .

 
          
"I
know what I want," Peter said firmly. "And it wouldn't be honest not
to tell Claire so."

 
          
"He
hasn't convinced me yet," Claire said, smiling, "but I have to admit
he seems to be wearing me down."

 
          
Colin
raised an eyebrow at her. In only a few months, Claire London had changed
almost completely, a gawky cygnet becoming a self-assured swan. Under Colin's
guidance and explanations she'd learned to trust the Gift that nature had given
her, and by extension, to trust the people around her.

 
          
She'd
taken eagerly to the simple mental disciplines he and Alison were able to teach
her, and she'd gained confidence both in her ability to intervene successfully
in the lives of others and in the tightness of doing so.

 
          
"I've
told Peter everything
—
about myself," Claire added, though perhaps only Colin
could have heard the qualifying hesitation in her voice.

 
          
"And
how do you feel about that?" Colin asked, neutrally.

 
          
Peter
laughed. "Well, it isn't something that I want to discuss with the boys
down at the bar!" he said cheerfully, then sobered. "I know that this
whole business of psychic powers sounds pretty much like Bunco Squad territory
—
"

 
          
"Sometimes
it is," Colin agreed. "For as long as there have been psychics, there
have been frauds
—
in fact, some people might say that the frauds came first.
One of the things parapsychology
—
an emerging science, as I'll be one of the first to admit
—
tries to do is bring the
study of these human abilities into the realm of the scientific method. I'm as
interested as anybody in exposing the frauds that litter our field, but not at
the price of issuing a blanket condemnation of anyone with paranormal
abilities. Whew! That's quite a speech."

 
          
"But
a good answer," Claire said. "Colin does as much to expose
—
oh, table-tippers and gypsy
tea-leaf readers, and all those so-called mystics who prey upon the unwary, as
—
as
you
do,
Peter!" she finished in a rush.

 
          
"That's
my Claire," Peter said fondly. "But tell me, Professor
—
Colin
—
is there any way for someone
like me to tell a psychic from a fraud? It isn't legal in
Alameda
County
to foretell the future
—
at least for money
—
but there's lots of ways
around the law for people who want to work that scam, and I can't bring Claire
along with me to check them all out."

 
          
Claire
wrinkled her nose. "You might as well read a good book as a pack of Tarot
cards
—
it's
all the same to me, Peter. / can't tell the future
—
I wish I could."

 
          
"There
are certain obvious guidelines for separating the sheep from the goats,"
Colin said, "but the most obvious is one you already know: if a person has
set himself up to make a living from his alleged psychic powers, it's almost a
dead certainty that he's a fraud. Science understands very little about the
psychic senses, but one thing that seems to be true is that these gifts are
highly erratic, and rarely come when they're called."

 
          
"But
what's
possible}"
Peter asked. "How can anyone tell the
difference between, say, a fraud medium and, well, someone like Claire?"

 
          
"That's
a difficult question," Colin said, "but if you'd like, I'll be happy
to come down and talk to your department about it. I may have found a few ways
of exposing a fake psychic that they haven't run into yet."

 
          
Peter
grinned engagingly. "Wish me luck at getting them to go for it! Still, it
can't hurt to mention it. Some of the guys, though, they aren't likely to think
you're, well, on the square."

           
"And while my own assurances
won't count for much, there is the fact that the state of
California
is trusting me with its
children," Colin said. "But don't worry, Peter; my ego's strong
enough to survive a few dents."

 
          
Colin
saw a good deal of Peter Moffat after that. Peter still lived at home with his
widowed mother, but Colin and Claire were both frequent visitors to the Moffat
house, for Sunday dinner or simply to drop in for the evening.

 
          
And,
slowly, Peter began bringing Colin the odd problems that cropped up in the
borderlands of police work; those events that were not precisely criminal, or
even illegal, merely . . . strange.

 
          
Claire
proved to be an invaluable partner to Colin's investigations. She was sensitive
to the presence of paranormal activity, and infallibly capable of recognizing
the psychic gift in others. To Colin's secret relief, Peter was delighted with
her competence and impressed with her abilities, and as the months passed it
began to seem inevitable that the two of them would spend the rest of their
lives together. . . .

 
          
It
was a June wedding. Colin and Peter had attended Claire's graduation from
nursing school only a few days before, and now many of the same people were
gathered here.

 
          
The
wedding was a quiet weekday affair held in the Lady Chapel of the Anglican
Church that Claire and Peter both attended. The bride wore a sensible blue
suit with a corsage of white roses and a pillbox hat with a scrap of veil; the
groom was sober and conscientious in a blue serge suit, and both of them made
their responses in quiet, firm voices.

 
          
She
looks so happy,
Colin thought prosaically, but didn't all brides look
happy? Today he had given the bride away, in the archaic custom, and now Colin
felt a great sense of peace, as of an obstacle gracefully negotiated. But the
true work had been Claire's, and the impediments things he could not begin to
guess at. None of Claire's family was at the wedding, for one thing
—
whether they had not been
invited, or had simply refused to come, Colin did not know. Mrs. Moffat was
sitting in the pew across the aisle from Colin in a pink flowered dress,
beaming tearfully as she entrusted her only son into the care of another woman.