Bradley, Marion Zimmer - Shadowgate 04 (82 page)

 
          
"Rape?
Is that what she told you?" Hay said, sounding like any man the morning
after trying to soft-pedal an assault. "All right, Sara, you've had your
joke and your revenge," he added, turning away from Claire. "Now get
this old hag out of here so we can get down to serious matters."

 
          
"I'll
go when Sally asks me to," Claire said boldly. "My own impulse is to
just throw you out."

 
          
Hay's
smile widened to a sneer. "Sara, this has gone too far for a joke."

 
          
Claire
was watching Sally's face. Whatever was going on here, Hay was making it worse.
The girl she had known was almost gone, submerged in the dark
awareness
that
was growing in Sally's very bearing.

 
          
Because
Hay was here?

 
          
"Now,
damn you
—
out,"
Claire snapped. Hay stepped toward her, and she shoved him
—
hard.

 
          
The
technique she used borrowed a little from every martial art. It was called
victim-proofing,
and Claire had taken the courses along with the women she counseled back in
San
Francisco
.

 
          
"I
warn you
—
" Hay said. When he reached for her again, she grabbed
his wrist and twisted it up behind him.

 
          
"Go
to hell. Go directly to hell. Do not pass 'Go.' Do not collect two hundred
dollars," Claire said. As he staggered off balance, she pitched him out
through the door.

 
          
Hay
sprawled in the muddy yard, and for a moment Claire feared that she'd really
hurt him, but then he got to his feet and glared murderously at her. Claire
gripped the edge of the kitchen door, ready to slam it in his face if he
charged.

 
          
"You'll
regret this, Sara," Hay shouted. "I can be your most loyal supporter
—
and priest
—
or your worst enemy! It's up
to you!"

 
          
He
shook his fist in the air, as if summoning down the wrath of the heavens, and
right on cue it began to rain harder. The theatrical absurdity of the gesture
was too much for Claire; she began to laugh, closing the kitchen door and
leaning against it.

 
          
Sally
was staring at her, a strange expression of her old-young face. Under that
eldritch gaze, Claire sobered quickly. There was something inhuman about that
steady, green-eyed regard.

 
          
"Let's
see about getting you to that hospital," Claire said, trying to regain
control of the situation. "And on the way, we can swing by the state
police barracks
—
I can make a report, or you can, and
—
"

 
          
"No,"
Sally said quickly.

 
          
Claire
stared at her in worried surprise.
Hay seemed pretty sure you'd be on bis
side. You aren't
—
are you?

 
          
"Claire,
I
—
"
It was Sally's voice
—
and it wasn't. As if something inside her skin were playing
the part
of Sally Larimer, feeling out the reactions a young woman would
have to the scene she had just witnessed.

 
          
"Are
you all right, Sally?"

 
          
"Oh.
Yes. But. . . you'd better go now. I need to rest. Matt won't try anything
else now; let's forget him."

 
          
She
knows I know.
The conviction was enough to paralyze Claire for a moment;
and suddenly the only important thing seemed to be that she get away and warn
Colin what was going on here. Whatever transformation had begun last night was
complete now, and Claire had no power to undo it.

 
          
"After
all ... there's no law against practicing witchcraft, is there?" Sally
said, but it was not Sally who gazed out through those cat-green eyes. It was
Sara
—
Witch-Sara, High Priestess
of the Church of the Antique Rite, and Matthew Hay's partner in damnation.

 
          
"We're
too late," Claire told Colin simply as they sat drinking coffee at the
only diner in Arkham. "Whatever it is, it's got her
—
and I'm afraid that Rowan
may be next."

 
          
She'd
come straight to Arkham after leaving the Latimer house, hurrying to find Colin
and tell him the evil news. Only Colin stood between the Antique Rite and the
destruction of those whom Claire held dear; though Colin had never confided in
her completely, Claire
knew
this as surely as she knew her own name.

 
          
To
protect and to serve: that was Colin's burden in this life, just as it was her
own, but Colin's power had been secured with oaths and promises that Claire had
not made. Often before she had blessed the freedom that this gave her simply to
meddle, knowing that whatever she did it was a part of that Great Design
mandated by the Architects of that Path which they all walked.

 
          
Colin
did not have the same freedom. He had taken full responsibility for each of his
actions in this life, and that promise bound him not to meddle ir the affairs
of those he called the Unawakened except by their own request. At the moment
she wished that were not so: she could not remember ever before feeling quite
so helpless as she did in the face of the sheer nastiness going or out at Witch
Hill.

 
          
"It's
never too late, Claire," Colin told her firmly. "I know that sounds
like the worst sort of cliche, but it's true. While this isn't at all pleasant
for Sally, she isn't in any real danger yet."

 
          
"How
can you
say
that?" Claire burst out, frightened and troubled.
"She told me what happened last night
—
while she still could
—
and Rowan's being drawn
into it as well! And if you'd only seen Matthew Hay up there, strutting and
gloating like a randy he-goat!"

 
          
Colin
raised his hand to silence her. "I didn't say that Sally
—
or Sara, I suppose we
should call her now
—
was
enjoying
this. But if we can drive Witch-Sara
back where she came from
—
I suppose psychologists would call it the collective
unconscious, or some such idiocy
—
she'll leave no lasting marks or Sally. And after a while,
Sally won't even remember what she did while she was overshadowed."

 
          
"But
others will
—
and she'll have to live her life with that. And what if we
can't drive her out?" Claire demanded. "What then?"

 
          
"Claire,
even if Sara's managed to take over Sally, her grip on existence won't be
secure until she's been reunited with the Antique Rite as well. That involves a
special ceremony, and they won't be doing that until the next of their Greater
Sabbats, August first."

 
          
"And
until then?" Claire snapped. "Even if Sally isn't responsible
—
"

 
          
"In
some sense she
is
responsible," Colin said austerely, "and if
this is the path she has chosen to expiation, neither you nor I have the right
to take her penance from her. If we move against the cult at the right moment,
we car destroy them with one stroke. Fail now
—
out of misplaced compassion
for Sally
—
and who knows when the next opportunity might be? That's
word the risk."

 
          
Claire
stared at Colin. Though he'd killed men before her very eyes, she could not
remember ever hearing him sound so ruthless before.

 
          
"And
Rowan?" she said evenly.

 
          
"No
harm will come to Rowan, Claire
—
I swear it. I don't think Hay has any immediate interest in
anything beyond getting Sara back, but I'll go anc pay a call on him just to be
sure. I need to get myself invited to his Lamma Sabbat, anyway
—
not that it should be
particularly difficult."

 
          
"You're
going to
go?"
Claire said in disbelief.

 
          
Colin
smiled grimly. "I wouldn't miss it for the world."

WITCH HILL
,
MASSACHUSETTS
,
SATURDAY,
MAY 19,  1990

And thou
—
what needest with thy tribe's black tents Who hast the red
pavilion of my heart?

—
FRANCIS THOMPSON

 
          
THOUGH
MADISON
CORNERS WAS ONLY ABOUT
ELEVEN MILES FROM Arkham as the crow flew, it was a thirty- to
forty-five-minute drive along the rutted, twisting, one-and-a-half-lane road
which was the only route through this lost corner of
Eastern Massachusetts
. Colin babied his Chevrolet
Citation carefully along the crown of the road wherever possible; he had no
desire to end up in a ditch and have to be towed out by a local farmer and his
team.

 
          
To
Colin's great relief, Claire had reported that Rowan's sleepwalking had stopped
with the Esbat. He did not think there would be any more trouble until
Lammasdde. And on that night, one way or another, the problem of Matthew Hay
and his loathsome church would be settled, once and for all.

 
          
Ten
years ago
—
or even five
—
Colin might have chosen another method of battle than this
cat-and-mouse waiting that distressed Claire so. But the power that such an
action would require was no longer Colin's to wield. His share of that power
and glory had been expended in the struggle which had reclaimed Simon Anstey's
soul for the Light, and he was beginning to worry that he might lack the
physical stamina needed to carry out even the subtler plan he had devised. He
never felt as if he could quite catch his breath these days, though so far he
had kept anyone from noticing.

 
          
But
Nathaniel had sent him after the Antique Rite precisely because mere strength
would not serve to win this battle. More than scattering the coven
—
which any Lightworker might
have done at any time
—
Colin must discover what ties they had to others who worked
in the shadow.

           
What was that bumper sticker he'd
seen?
"Oldage and treachery will overcome youth and skill."
Colin
supposed that on this occasion it was entirely apposite, but somehow knowing
that didn't make him feel any better. Today's activities would not tax him,
though; they were no more than the opening clash of I sabers in a duel to the
death
—
a
reconnaissance of sorts.

 
          
For
matters were often not what they seemed. . . .

 
          
Madison
Corners, while technically a town, was actually a widespread farm i community
clustered loosely around the old Latimer place up at the top of I Witch Hill
Road. Colin drove by the turnoff, past the Whitfield farm and down to the
crossroads, where he turned left and drove until he picked up
Witch Hill Road
at the other end.

 
          
It
was barely a lane here, unpaved and deeply rutted. Colin drove slowly up the
hill, past the Hay house
—
an ornate Gothic monstrosity, relic of better days in this
part of
Massachusetts
—
and on to the graveyard and
the ruined church beyond. Parking his car carefully on the driest patch of
ground he could find, Colin climbed out and looked around.

 
          
Both
the graveyard and the church had already been forgotten by any respectable
denomination in the days when
Massachusetts
was still a colony of I the
English crown. But whatever congregation had built this structure had built it
to last, and the stones still endured.

 
          
Colin
moved slowly into the old graveyard. Rag-poppets hung from the trees, and food
offerings were placed on the ancient graves, indications of a wholesome
paganism which had long since mutated into something darker, a sick and inbred
obsession with sex and death rather than the benevolent celebration of life and
love perpetuated by the Hidden Children of the Wicca. Colin stretched forth his
Adept's senses, seeking for those traces of that which even Claire's Gift would
not be able to uncover: the architecture of sorcery.

 
          
Despite
the warmth of the spring sunshine, Colin shivered. Yes ... it was here. The
layers of intention reverberated like the echoes of martial music from the
bronze lych-gate outside the church, indication enough that the structure was
still in use. Cautiously, Colin touched the time-corroded bronze
—
odd, that the archway should
be made of metal, instead of the more I common wood or stone
—
and drew back quickly. It
was not that the power of this place was so very great, but what there was, was
unclean. . . .

 
          
"Can
I help you?" a voice called from behind him.

 
          
Colin
smiled to himself, turning away from the gate. As he'd hoped and expected,
Matthew Hay was striding across the graveyard toward him, his long black frock
coat flapping around him like a crow's wings. Hay looked like an Angel of
Judgment from an avant-garde Western.

 
          
"Perhaps,"
Colin said. "I'm interested in certain . . . antiquities."

 
          
Hay
stopped in front of him. Colin was not a short man by any reckoning, but even
he had to look up into Hay's china-pale eyes.

 
          
"If
you're looking for antique stores," Hay said, "you'll find more of
what you're looking for back to Arkham. This is private property, and I'm
sorry, but we don't allow rubbings to be taken of the gravestones."

           
Considering what's carved on some
of them, I'm not surprised,
Colin thought to himself. "Am I addressing
Matthew Hay?" Colin asked, "direct descendant of the Reverend Lemuel
Hay?"

 
          
Hay
looked suspicious, as anyone might. "And who are you?" he demanded
ungraciously, not answering Colin's question.

 
          
"One
who has traveled far," Colin answered cryptically. If he was going to
convince Matthew Hay that he was a visiting Adept of his own black stripe
without Hay detecting the charade, he would have to use all the finesse learned
in decades of deception.

 
          
Hay
looked sharply at Colin when he gave that oblique answer, and when he spoke
again his words were freighted with intent.

 
          
"And
what is it that you seek, traveling so far?"

 
          
"Some
travel East, seeking Light. Others do not," Colin answered. It was no lie
—
he had not said which he
sought. But as he had hoped, Hay took his words at face value.

 
          
"Welcome
—
brother," Hay said
formally. "What makes you seek us lout?"

 
          
"I
do not come at my own bidding," Colin answered, taking the high-flown tack
that Hay seemed to expect, "but have been sent by another, to whom word
has come of you."

 
          
"And
your name?" Hay asked, his natural suspicion reasserting itself. "You
already seem to know mine."

 
          
"Colin
MacLaren."

 
          
"I
know you." Hay's eyes narrowed. "You're that lecturer fella they've
got down at Miskatonic. You're here talking about folklore."

 
          
The
way Matthew Hay pronounced the word, it was synonymous with
"nonsense."

 
          
"Some
call it folklore," Colin agreed. "But others know that many forgotten
truths live on as folklore. 'That is not dead which can eternal lie ... and
with strange eons, even Death may die.'
Af baraldim Azathoth! Ad baraldim
asdo galoth Azathoth! Id Cthulhufthagn!"

 
          
"Aye,"
said Matthew, grudingly impressed. "Go on."

 
          
"It's
well known in certain circles that the worship of Great Cthulhu and the gods of
antediluvian days was preserved here by families who sailed to the New World with
certain books in their possession
—
books like the
Necro-nomicon,
Die Vermis Mysteriis, Les Cultes des Goules
... all wellsprings of the elder
knowledge handed down by the great Adepts," Colin said.

 
          
Hay
did not even blink at the intermingling of real and imaginary texts, bolstering
Colin's initial guess that the Antique Rite, though still dangerous, was far
from being the threat it once had been. Generations of transmission through
unsophisticated farm folk had done their work, and Hay and his coven no longer
precisely understood what it was they did here at the old church . . .
dangerous though their actions remained.

 
          
"And
you've come to learn from us?" Hay asked, half disbelieving.

 
          
"I
have come a long way to learn what you are," Colin answered truthfully.

 
          
*    
*     *

 
 
          
After
he left Hay
—
it had been easy enough to gain the invitation he sought,
along with confirmation of the time and date of the Sabbat
—
Colin drove slowly back down
Witch Hill Road.

 
          
His
chest ached, and there was a coppery taste in his mouth. Hay's church was a
dedicated place of power whose orientation made Colin physically ill, and
Claire, he suspected, would not be able to pass the threshold of the building
at all. Fortunately, Colin was no psychic. All his plans hinged on that fact.

 
          
As
he drove past the Latimer House, Colin decided, almost on an impulse, to stop
there.
I need to see what Sally knows
—
and see if Claire was right
in her interpretation of what she saw. If Witch-Sara is indeed back for good
—
or maybe I should say
"for ill"?

 
          
And
if she is, will she betray us to Hay? It's a long way to August
—
almost six weeks. He might
buy my story that we shouldn't be seen together until the date of the Sabbat
itself, but that's still a lot of time in which to keep this masquerade in one
piece. Especially if Witch-Sara tells him what Sally knows. . . .

 
          
Colin
was prepared for anything but the sight that greeted him. Claire had been both
clinical and specific in her description of Sally's raddled appearance the day
after the Esbat, but the young woman standing in the doorway looked sleek and
almost pampered. Her wavy red hair was pinned up in a neat bun with a set of
silver-headed pins, and a pair of antique earrings Colin had never seen before
glittered in her ears. She was dressed in a time-softened chambray shirt and
overalls, and the dirt-smudged knees of the overalls testified that she'd been
working out in the herb garden.