Bradley, Marion Zimmer - Shadowgate 04 (53 page)

 
          
"You
know how easy everything's ever been for Simon. Not that he hasn't had to work
at his music, but his work's always paid off. There's never been anything he
wanted that he didn't
—
eventually
—
get." She ran a hand through her hair. "You might
say he's never lived in an irrational universe.

 
          
"So
when I wasn't looking, he came up with this theory that while the practices of
the Left-Hand Path were dangerous, they could be performed safely, so long as
it was by a trained Adept taking proper precautions."

 
          
Colin
stared at her in horror. "You know that's not true."

 
          
"Oh,
yes. But it sounds so plausible, doesn't it? And look at the rewards: absolute
power over the Material Plane, the resolution of all obstacles, the destruction
of old age
—
the ability to heal the sick, to raise the dead. . .
." Alison smiled bitterly. "Only we aren't meant to have that power.
We're not gods
—
we don't have access to the Formless Uncreated from which
all Manifestation flows. The power to perform all these lovely parlor tricks
has to come from somewhere, and for the sons of Adam and the daughters of Eve
it comes from blood
—
from stealing the life energy of others."

 
          
"From
murder," Claire said flatly.

 
          
"Animal
sacrifice, usually, but yes. And from torture before the sacrifice, to raise the
power to its ultimate expression."

 
          
"And
Simon was doing this?" Colin asked, incredulous. "Really doing
it?"

 
          
"He
did it once," Alison said. "Years ago. One of my cats. When I caught
him, I told him that if he ever did that again, I'd
—
" She broke off and
laughed bitterly. "I told him I'd cut off his left hand."

 
          
Claire
flinched, as if trying to ward off the image. "But that was years ago,
Alison," she said hopefully. "And you didn't mean it."

 
          
"I
did mean it, Claire, and he knew it, so
—
as I thought
—
he dropped the stuff. And
then a couple of years ago he brought it all up again, just hypothetically this
time, thank god. I could see what was happening, where he was going with this,
but there was nothing I could do to talk him out of it. He kept saying that the
Left-Hand practices had been barred from our use through nothing more than
superstitious ignorance, and the time for that was over. I only hope that this
tragedy, well, makes him take stock of his life and look inward. But you know,
I've wondered sometimes lately if he might not be right? The world seems like
such a dark place these days. . . ." She sighed.

 
          
"To
turn to the Dark is never right," Colin said firmly. He felt like a hypocrite
as he said it, even though he knew he was telling only the truth. He simply
hadn't known, when he was first taught this Rule that he must live by, how hard
it was, and how overwhelming the temptations to surrender could be.

 
          
He
wondered what Simon's temptations had been, and which of his friends and
mentors had failed him most.
We are all each other's caretakers,
Colin
reflected. He did not think he had been a good one, so far.

 
          
Looking
back at his life, all Colin could see were halfhearted attempts at stewardship,
as though it were something he had been only playing at until he could return
to his rightful work. But stewardship
was
his rightful work. The
sanguine glamour that had been cast over his early life had been meant to fade
and leave him as he had been before. Only when he had renounced the power, he
had not been able to set aside the memories. To go on, to do what he had been
meant to do, he must renounce the memories as well, and set that part of
himself to slumber, for the sake of those whose lives he touched.

 
          
"Alison,
you know there are things we are forbidden to do. It's the Code we live by, and
no one ever said it was easy. All of Simon's arguments sound reasonable, but
that's hardly the point at issue here. We already know that appropriating the
Shadow's methods can only lead to disaster
—
you and I both have absolute
proof of that. The means creates the end
—
to reach an impeccable goal
we can only use the most impeccable tools."

 
          
"And
so we diddle around with peashooters while the Enemy has the heavy
artillery," Alison said bitterly. "And we lose people like Simon
every day." She stubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray. "It isn't
fair, is it?"

           
"No," Colin agreed.
"But that's the way it is."

 
          
Toller
Hasloch hovered, an unshared secret, over the conversation. Now Colin had seen
the full extent of what damage those ghosts of the past could do, but right now
the important thing was not to salve his own wounds, but to lend strength where
he could, so that others did not suffer the same pain of separation from the
Light that he had brought on himself.

 
          
Two
weeks later Simon was transferred to a long-term care facility. He was walking
—
with help
—
and the long process of
reconstructing the left side of his face had begun. Though the eye itself was
intact, the sight in his left eye was badly compromised, and he suffered
blinding headaches unless the damaged eye was kept covered. But his
determination to be what he had been before the accident was unwavering, and
almost frightening in its intensity.

 
          
"I
will play again," he said to his visitors.

 
          
The
left side of his face was exposed now, crossed with livid red scars awaiting
the hand of the plastic surgeon. He wore a patch over his left eye. The
blackness of unshaven stubble over the scarred half of his face and neck, along
with his half-shaven scalp, gave him a particularly brutish look, though some
of the effect was offset by the fact that he was wearing his own clothes at
last.

 
          
His
room at the rehabilitation clinic looked more like a bedroom in a luxurious
hotel than like a sickroom. It had a panoramic view of the City, and there was
even a fireplace. But the bed was outfitted with side rails and a call button,
and all the pathways around the room were wide enough to allow the passage of a
wheelchair.

 
          
"Simon,
there are other
—
" Alison began.

 
          
"'Other
things to do with your life than play!'" Simon mocked angrily. "Why,
I could
teach
—
or conduct
—
or compose. So Colin had been kind enough to tell me, the
witless hypocrite! He's a eunuch lecturing a whole man on the joys of chastity
—
"

 
          
"Simon!"
Claire said, shocked.

 
          
Alison
had said that Simon was being difficult, but until now Claire hadn't known
quite how difficult "difficult" was.

 
          
"Yes,
Simon,"
Simon jeered. "And I'll tell you
—
both of you
—
what I told him: I do not
intend to lie down and seek the consolations to be found in groveling
submission to the ineffable Will of God. That was never my way, and I don't
intend to take it up now. Why are we given power, if not to use it?"

 
          
"You
know the answer to that," Claire said quietly.

 
          
"I
know the answer your loving God would have me choose," Simon snarled,
"but
—
"

 
          
He
broke off, stiffening in his chair. His head jerked to the side and he twitched
spasmodically, as if an electric current were running through him. His lips
were curled back from his teeth in a snarl that forced beads of blood through
the surface of his half-healed scars.

 
          
"Get
the nurse!" Claire barked, jumping up from her chair and running over to
him. "Simon
—
Simon, can you hear me?" The muscles under her hands
were rigid, and Simon did not answer.

 
          
In
a few more seconds
—
though it seemed an eternity
—
the seizure had passed.
Simon slumped against Claire, panting raggedly.

 
          
"Mr.
Anstey!" the floor nurse said, coming in just ahead of Alison.

 
          
"All
. . . right. I'm all right now," Simon said, his voice barely a whisper.

 
          
"He
had another one of those spasms," Claire said. Simon's face was slick with
mingled sweat and blood. She plucked the silk handkerchief from the breast
pocket of his dressing gown and blotted his forehead with it. The lid of his
good eye drooped with exhaustion.

 
          
"I
think that you ought to get back into bed," the nurse told Simon.
"The doctor has written you a prescription for
—
"

 
          
"No
drugs," Simon said breathlessly.

 
          
"If
they'll help you heal, you should take them," Alison said. Her face was
twisted with the pain she felt for him. "The faster you heal, the less
need you'll have for them."

 
          
"Let
me help you get him into bed," Claire said to the nurse. It helped that
they knew here that she was an RN; it made the staff more willing to rely on
her.

 
          
Between
the two of them, Claire and the floor nurse quickly muscled Si-1 mon into bed
and out of his dressing gown. He wasn't able to be of much help
—
the wracking nerve spasm had
left him weak
—
but the two of them got him tucked in easily.

 
          
"Mr.
Anstey, you really should
—
"

 
          
"Go
away," Simon said tiredly.

 
          
Claire
understood why he was so unwilling to accept any of the painkillers the staff
wished to give him. She herself rarely took anything stronger than I aspirin,
and never drank anything stronger than the occasional glass of wine. Both
Alison and Colin had offered to erect the Wards that Simon was still too weak
to build, but he had angrily rejected their help
—
calling it pennies to a |
blind beggar's cup
—
and they could not act without his permission.

 
          
But
it was a hard row to hoe, relying on your own strength alone, anc Claire's
heart wept for him. She took his good hand in both of her own. "Rest now,
Simon," she said gently. "I'll watch with you."

 
          
"You're
a good girl, Claire," Simon said. His fingers flexed momentarily about her
own as he fell down into unguarded sleep.

 
          
When
Claire was certain he'd gone deep enough not to be pulled back into wakefulness
by any lingering twinges, she tucked his hand under the covers and got to her
feet, tracing the Seal of Man on his forehead with a light touch. She shook her
head ruefully, gazing at Alison.

 
          
"I
wouldn't want to be in charge of his treatment," she said in a low voice.
J "He's the worst sort of patient to have: bright, stubborn, and
half-right."

 
          
The
description, as she'd hoped it would, brought a smile to Alison's face.

 
          
"I
know that Colin had to go back East, but you'll stay with us awhile, won't you,
Claire?" Alison said, almost pleading. "I think Simon might listen
to you. We've quarreled so much this past year that I think he's just got the
idea that I'm opposed to anything he wants to do, and I'm not." There was
a faint quiver in the older woman's voice.