Bradley, Marion Zimmer - Shadowgate 04 (5 page)

 
          
"I
know, Alison," Colin said reluctantly.

 
          
She
was telling him nothing he did not already know, and it was a situation that
had concerned Colin ever since he had returned home. Every pilgrim on the
Path, no matter how unfledged, had the responsibility to guide others in the
direction of the Light to the best of his ability. For someone like Colin, who
had followed the Path for many lifetimes, it was even more important that he
find and teach his successor in the Great Work; another who could take his
place to stand among the Hosts of the Army of the Light.

 
          
To
set someone's feet upon the Path was an awesome responsibility, one not lightly
entered into. But to find his
chela
and train him in his footsteps was
the ultimate test of an Adept, for there were many pitfalls along the way, and
failure meant a spoiled Adept, one who had tasted the seduction of power and
yet lacked the discipline to use it for Good. Such creatures, if they survived
the Abyss, came back to haunt their teachers with each turn of the Wheel: dark
wraiths who corrupted all that they meddled in.

 
          
Love
was the only thing that made such a risk bearable, and in the secret chambers
of his heart, Colin MacLaren wondered if he were still capable of such love,
after the horrors he had witnessed. In all the years of this life he had not
yet met anyone that he felt called upon to teach
—
was there some lack in
himself that caused him to be so blind?

 
          
"There
will be time," Alison said, reaching out and covering his hand with her
own as if she had followed the current of his thoughts
—
and perhaps she had. The
feeling of that warm contact was like a benediction, soothing his sense of
guilt and of promises unkept. "Our Masters do not ask anything of us that
we cannot accomplish through love and trust."

 
          
"I
hope you're right," Colin said, slowly. He had never felt less capable of
that dispassionate, powerful love that was the sword and buckler of those who
warred for the Light.

 
          
Alison
released his hand and got to her feet. "But I didn't come here to scold
you, my dear
—
you certainly deserve better from me than that. I came to
invite you to come over to Greenhaven for dinner some night soon. I'm an
adequate cook, and afterward we might tour some of the local jazz clubs.
There's more to
North
Beach
than topless dancing, and
you can't bury yourself in work every minute. There's quite a community of our
fellow travelers here; you should get to know them."

 
          
"You're
right, of course," Colin said, getting to his feet as well. As he did, his
eye chanced on the box once more, and he picked it up. "And we'll make a
firm date for dinner, just as soon as I know how busy my schedule's going to
be. Now let me see what this is. I love presents," Colin added, as he tore
off the gold paper and silver ribbon that covered the package.

 
          
"Oh
. . . my. Alison, this is lovely."

 
          
"Functional,
too," Alison said cheerily, her earlier somber mood vanished like
San Francisco
's famous morning fog.
"You can hold down papers, open your mail, stab fellow faculty members in
the back. . . ."

 
          
Colin
turned the object over in his hands. It was a substantial piece. A
sterling-silver sword pierced an anvil carved out of black jade, thrusting
through the anvil into the white granite of the stone on which the anvil sat.
Flecks of mica glittered against the pale stone, flashing in the sunlight.

 
          
The
"sword" was removable, and was meant to be used as a letter opener;
Colin slid it from its niche and inspected it critically.

 
          
"Excalibur?"
he said quizzically, setting the paperweight down and sliding the letter opener
back into its slot. "I hope you don't think I'll be needing
that
any
time soon."

 
          
Alison
laughed. "Those days are over and done with, thank the Light! But I have
to dash
—
I've
still got half a dozen errands to run and I have to be sure to be home before
three. My newest pupil is coming for a music lesson and I'd hate to be
late."

 
          
"Pupil?"
Colin asked with interest.

 
          
"In
every sense of the word," Alison said. "I've never felt such strength
and dedication in one so young
—
he's only seventeen, but he's got the drive and discipline
of someone three times his age. You'll remember his mother
—
she studied with me for a while,
and thank heavens she remembered me when her boy came out with a poltergeist.
She had him in a military school, of all places
—
well! It was an act of mercy
to take him in; I gave him lessons, but even then there wasn't much I could
teach him, and when the symphony offered him a position out here, I took him
under my wing, as it were
—
to the great relief of his mother, I might add. You really
must come to dinner soon, Colin, so you can meet him
—
he's so brilliant that at
times it's nearly frightening. I think the two of you will have a lot in
common. "His name's Simon. Simon Anstey."

 
          
After
Alison had gone, Colin sat staring out the window for a long time, his relit
pipe smoldering fragrantly between his teeth.

 
          
Simon
Anstey. It was the first time Colin had heard the name, but some tolling echo
of future memory made it resonate within his mind. Simon Anstey was someone who
would matter to Colin in ways he could not yet imagine.

 
          
He
sighed and shook his head. The future would unfold itself in its own good time
—
Colin was no psychic
sensitive, able to rend the veil and peer into the Unseen World at will. The
inspirations he received were only the faintest of echoes from the Akashic
Records, meant only to warn, and, sometimes, to guide. He could not judge which
this was to be, and in some small corner of his soul Colin feared that it might
be a summons to renewed battle in the never-ending war for the Light.

 
          
The
first weeks of the fall term passed swiftly, and Colin was soon caught up in
the minutiae of scholastic life. Aside from a nagging tendency for his students
to call him "Doctor" MacLaren, a title he disliked, he had no complaints
to make. These children were not old enough to remember the Second World War
and had even been too young to face the consequences of
Korea
; they seemed curiously
unfledged, almost as if they wandered the halls of some waking dream.

 
          
He
managed to keep only part of his promise to Alison
—
meeting her for a quick
lunch in a downtown restaurant, and promising a visit to Greenhaven the next
time
—
but
Simon Anstey was away on tour, and so Colin missed the chance to meet Alison's
dazzling pupil. Simon had soloed with the San Francisco Symphony by the time
he was eight years old, and at twelve had already recorded five albums. When he
had come to live with Alison, it was as much for her healing gifts as her
musical ones, for Simon, at fifteen, was already dealing with pressures that
most men did not face for another twenty years
—
as well as with a wayward
curiosity that led him into little-frequented byways of the Unseen.

 
          
Alison
spoke of him often, in ways that
—
were she a younger woman speaking about an older man
—
would have been easy to
mistake for romantic love. But Alison Margrave had set that possibility aside
in order to devote her energies to a professional career. In an era when most
women still were married by twenty and mothers soon afterward, Alison Margrave
had never married. She had always been a maverick, a loner, on guard against
self-immolation disguised as social service. And in any case, Simon was young
enough to be her grandson.

 
          
Alison
had given Colin one of Simon's albums, a collection of Scarlatti concertos for
harpsichord. When he played it, Colin had marveled at the pure brilliant sound
those young fingers had evoked from one of Alison's antique instruments. The
soaring rills of notes had echoed off the walls of the living room of Colin's
little bungalow and streamed out over the
Berkeley
hills like a gust of
starlight, making him catch his breath in wonder.

 
          
He'd
listened to the record several times, trying to make up his mind about the
musician who had produced such angelic sounds. The music was cold,
mathematical, and nearly heartless, but surely that could be laid to the
intention of the composer and the youth of the artist? The passions of childhood
rarely ran as deep and true as those of their elders; the very young still
believed that they would always be just as they were at that moment,
heart-whole and immortal.

 
          
There
was no reason for Colin to be so concerned about young Anstey. The boy was not
his student, he was Alison's. And Alison Margrave was experienced and
skeptical, unlikely to be wrong about her protege's motives or capabilities
—
and certainly not overeager
to take on the responsibilities of an apprentice. As a woman, she had
sacrificed much for her art and her independence, and would not be eager to
seem to be made a fool by unwise choices or impossible romantic attachments.

 
          
So
Colin told himself, and was able to ascribe his nagging misgivings solely to a
small twinge of professional jealousy. There would be time enough to judge
Simon Anstey when he had met him.

 
          
The
brief brilliant autumn passed through the East Bay in a series of crystalline
days and increasingly chilly nights as the whole community held its breath
—
as it did every year
—
at the threat of fire from
the dun brown, tinder-dry hills. Then at last the winter rains appeared, and as
October became November the hillsides turned the brilliant emerald green of a
Northern California winter.

 
          
The
young president who had been elected that November seemed to have been born to
lead the generation of innocents who filled Colin's classes. Though he kept no
more than a weather eye on national policy and international politics, Colin
could not suppress the feeling that the wrong candidate had won. His misgivings
were nebulous, consisting mostly of the feeling that John Fitzgerald Kennedy
was too young, too confident, to be able to deal with the jagged chessboard
bequeathed him by the Cold War. Camelot's Crown Prince was too much the golden
hero
—
despite
his family heritage of bare-knuckle back-alley Boston politics and a-father who
had been a senator before him
—
to be able to go into the dark places and emerge unscathed.

 
          
But
that, Colin told himself, was why presidents had advisors. His nervous fretting
was only the anxiousness of an old polo pony ready to get back into the game.
But Alison had been right: his task was over. That match was done.

 
          
Only
each time he told himself that, some faint instinct told Colin that he was
wrong. . . .

 
          
In
late November, circumstances finally conspired to allow Colin to meet Simon
Anstey.

 
          
The
days were shorter now, hurrying into the dark half of the year, and more days
than not the sun that had seemed so omnipresent when Colin had arrived in the
Bay Area never showed its face at all. Veils of mist shrouded the
Berkeley
hills and wrapped the
entire
East
Bay
in a mask of grey gauze,
making a New Yorker yearn for the bright blue days and pale clear sunshine of
an Eastern winter.

 
          
Berkeley
closed for several days
around Thanksgiving, and Alison had demanded his presence for long enough to
pay a proper visit to Greenhaven and see something more of the City than he'd
been able to manage in his brief visits earlier in the year. So Colin had
packed an overnight bag, taken his page of careful directions in hand, and
turned the battered but dependable Ford (Colin had nicknamed it
la Bete
Noire,
faithful beast of burden that it was) in the direction of the City
by the Bay.