Bradley, Marion Zimmer - Shadowgate 04 (73 page)

 
          
Leslie,
too, had changed greatly in the month since Claire had last seen her. Claire
could sense the power that enfolded her now, but it was curiously passive
—
as if it slumbered unnoticed
within her, awaiting its summons.

 
          
But
if it did slumber, it seemed to be the only thing that did. Leslie herself
looked as if she had not slept well in weeks, or were ill with some wasting
disease. There was more wrong here than one world-class fright and a sleepless
night.

 
          
Alison,
how could you let this happen to her?

 
          
But
Claire said nothing, and soon the two women were drinking tall glasses of iced
herbal tea in Leslie's spacious kitchen. The house was blessedly cool
—
situated at the top of the
hill, its wide windows caught every breeze; it had been built in an era when
architects could not rely on technology to remedy their failings. As they
lingered over the cold drinks, Claire made a few tentative expressions of
conventional sympathy for Leslie's calamity, and as she had hoped, that was
enough to bring Leslie's real concern to the surface.

 
          
"Sometimes
I feel this house isn't mine at all. It's still Alison's
—
and she's trying to run my
life!"

 
          
Despite
their previous conversations, Leslie obviously expected Claire to pooh-pooh the
notion, but Claire gave it serious thought. Alison had possessed the
perfectionism and temper of the professional musician, and she'd probably been
rough enough on the house's last several tenants
—
if indeed it had been she
influencing them, and not that horror in the Sanctuary. But in her wildest
dreams Claire could not imagine Alison being as cruel and vindictive as the
power that was tormenting Leslie.

 
          
"That
would have been the last thing Alison would want," Claire said. "I
expect that you and Simon banished the house together at the Solstice, but
Simon . . . might not have known that the Sanct
—
That the garage needed
anything more than the ordinary routine clearing." She spoke gently,
trying to lead Leslie to the understanding that Alison had chosen her to
continue Alison's unfinished work
—
without, if possible, saying
anything against Simon.

 
          
"Now
you're making me feel guilty for not being able to protect my house against
—
against violence!"
Leslie burst out in angry fear.

 
          
It
took all of Claire's tact to soothe her down again, without allowing Leslie
simply to go back to pretending that nothing out of the ordinary was wrong. At
last Claire suggested that they go have a look at the music room
—
a room full of toothpicks
that had once been a harpsichord would be a great cure for a woman in denial.

 
          
And
the reminder did seem to have the effect that Claire hoped for. Leslie stood
quietly in the middle of the room, her face pensive.

 
          
Claire
came and stood beside her, bracing herself for what must surely come.
Cautiously, she opened herself to the atmosphere in the room, probing,
searching. . . .

 
          
Pain.
Terror. And RAGE
—
a cheated fury that was as far beyond human as a blowtorch
is beyond a candle. . .

 
          
Claire
opened her eyes with a gasp. It was only the echo of the force that had been
here, not the force itself
—
the psychic equivalent of footprints in a muddy flowerbed.
The imprint would fade with time, though a Sensitive would always be able to
detect it if the room were not cleared.

 
          
But
it was not Simon, as Claire had expected. The force that had ravened here was
inhuman
—
not
as a cat is, but as a stone is; something of a different order of creation
entirely.

 
          
It
was not Simon.

 
          
In
her relief and worry, Claire tried to explain what she'd sensed here, but only
succeeded in confusing Leslie once more.

 
          
"Are
you talking about black magic?" Leslie asked. "Satan? The
devil?"

 
          
"I
don't believe in Satan," Claire said.
At least, not as
Milton
's fallen angel; Christ's
demonic twin. Colin says that he has faced demons
—
but I haven't, and that's
nothing to be bothering this poor woman with just now.
"But the force in this
room was so completely inhuman that I haven't any handy way to describe it. If
it was generated by a human mind, it would have had to come directly from the
id; the part that is buried far below rational thought and operates purely upon
instinct. And
that
is a more terrifying thought than any classical Satan
out of a medieval grimoire!"

 
          
She
felt Leslie's panic recede as Claire told her what she needed to hear. She
thought that Leslie could be brought to do what must be done here so long as it
could be made to seem reasonable, a part of the mechanistic world of explicit
cause and effect. Though Simon must be harrying her somehow along the Path
—
for Leslie was far more
accepting of the paranormal than she had been even three months before
—
she was still fighting
against full acceptance of the new world that Simon and her own Gifts were
unveiling to her.

 
          
There
were few things more terrifying to the average person than the discovery of
their profound vulnerability to the forces of magick: Black, White, or Grey.
Magick was a force that solid walls could not stop, that simple willpower
could not thwart. It could suborn the gatekeepers of the human ego and gain
unrestricted access to the unconscious mind. It was not thwarted by time or
distance, and paid no heed to the logical sequence of cause and effect.

 
          
Without
an understanding of the fundamental laws which governed the world of the
Unseen, most people's first encounter with magick seemed as if they had
suddenly entered an evil funhouse where effect preceded cause and time ran not
even backward but inside-out; where absolutes no longer existed and reason was
forced to submit to a logic that had no basis in common sense. No wonder their
instant impulsive response was usually denial and terror
—
it was as if reality itself
were challenged, and with it, all their life's experience.

 
          
But
just as Claire began to relax, she felt a power gather itself here in this
room, pushing at the barriers between the World of Form and the Unseen World,
seeking the weakest point at which to break through.

 
          
Claire.

 
          
No
—
not now,
Claire pleaded, but the
force took no heed. It rushed in with the frustrated haste of something that
has long been trying to make itself heard and dares not miss any opportunity.

 
          
"Claire!
Oh, Claire
—
my darling girl
..."

 
          
"Alison?"
Claire whispered aloud. How could Alison still be trapped here, when she had
known that her duty was to go toward the Light?

 
          
"How
could he do this? My house was always a temple of healing
—
"

 
          
"She
is not happy," Claire said aloud, for Leslie's benefit.
Alison, how can
I help you? Tell me what keeps you here.

 
          
"I
stayed because I had no inheritor. . . until now. Now she is ready to take up
my fight. I will help her all that I can, but when the Tide turns it will be
time for me to go. There is one charge that I lay upon you and not her: tell
Simon that I forgive him everything
—
what he took from me I would
have given him gladly. Tell him, Claire! You must!"

 
          
"Very
well. I will tell him. When I can." There was a disorienting, almost
nauseating, sense of dislocation as the charged atmosphere trickled away. Alison
was gone, and with her, the taint of inhuman violence vanished as well.

 
          
Claire
turned to Leslie. "Nothing further to be done in here," she said
brusquely. "Let's look at the rest of the house."

 
          
It
was after eleven when Claire left. She'd given the house as good a going-over
as Colin could have asked
—
and she thought she'd managed to rebuild her relationship
with Leslie, as well.

 
          
She
and Leslie had blessed the major trouble spot, the garage
—
once Alison's Sanctuary
—
together. Leslie had taken
to the tools of the Path easily, though she had shied away from performing the
operation herself. Despite that, Claire had felt Leslie's fledgling power as a
bright beacon in the Overlight.

 
          
But
for the first time that Claire could remember, the use of her Gift had
exhausted her, left her feeling drained
—
as if, deprived of some
natural well-spring upon which it could feed, it had turned upon Claire's
substance and devoured that, instead. She hadn't gone half a block when she
began to wish that she'd brought her car instead of walking up from the
bookshop; she could not remember the last time she'd felt so tired.

 
          
She
stumbled, catching herself against a nearby lamppost and realized that she'd
been staggering across the sidewalk like a drunk in her exhaustion.

 
          
No
more of that,
Claire told herself sternly. /'//
just rest a minute
here.
She could go back to the house and call a cab, of course, but it
would take one at least half an hour to arrive and Claire was reluctant to
disturb Leslie further. She leaned against the lamppost, belatedly realizing,
as she saw the flare of headlights that meant a car was coming up the hill,
that she was in the cliched pose of the streetwalker. She felt a combination of
horror and hilarity as the car slowed, then stopped.

 
          
"Claire?
Are you all right?"

 
          
"Colin!"
Relief banished all previous thoughts.

 
          
"I
came to see if you were still up here. I thought you might like a lift
home."

 
          
In
the illumination of the Volvo's dome light, Claire could see how worried he
was.

 
          
"I
was just leaving," Claire explained, "but am I ever glad to see you.
I don't think I could have walked another step."

 
          
Colin
reached over and opened the passenger door; Claire sank gratefully into the
leather upholstery, closing her eyes. Colin drove on, and the inside of the car
seemed to whirl giddily around her.

 
          
"I
ought to tell you what happened tonight," she said, almost mumbling.

 
          
"Tell
me tomorrow
—
unless it won't keep?"

 
          
"There's
some time," Claire said, already half asleep. "Until the Tide
turns."

 
          
The
Tide that Alison had spoken of to Claire was the Tide of the Year. Magicians
believed that the four great turning points of the year were the solstices and
the equinoxes, the still points at which the Great Cycle shifted emphasis and
direction.

 
          
The
vernal equinox was a rising tide, rushing upward into the summer solstice, but
the autumnal equinox was a falling tide, slipping down into the winter
darkness. Any well-trained magician planning an operation involving the
Left-Hand Path would be likely to choose that date for his working. When Alison
had spoken of leaving with the turning Tide, it was the autumnal equinox that
she meant; the date upon which the Sun moved into Libra. September 21 was a
little over six weeks away, and Colin and Claire both hoped to be ready for
anything that day might bring.