Bradley, Marion Zimmer - Shadowgate 04 (93 page)

 
          
What
came now? If Toller were interested in Pilgrim, Colin owed Truth a warning
—
but Colin had gained Dylan's
promise to stay out of things through the simple threat of involving Truth,
who, though in England, was only a phone call away. He knew that wouldn't hold
Dylan back for long, but if Colin called Truth now, Colin knew Dylan would consider
himself absolved of his promise immediately. And with Toller Hasloch involved,
that was far too dangerous.

 
          
Colin
frowned, pondering. Pilgrim had been transferred to
Fall River
last year, after Truth had
met Nathaniel. He picked up the telephone and dialed.

 
          
"Atheling."

 
          
"Nathaniel,
it's Colin." He thought of telling Nathaniel that Hasloch was alive, then
realized that Nathaniel must already know
—
that he would have kept
track of matters involving Hasloch when Colin had not. Nathaniel had certainly known
Hasloch was alive down all the long years when the belief in his own guilt had
tormented Colin.

 
          
But
such was my penance, and in the turning of the Wheel all things are understood.
So mote it be.

 
          
Colin
bowed his head, schooling his rebellious spirit to acceptance. It was a moment
before he could go on.

 
          
"I
have some information for you, Nathaniel. You'll remember Toller Hasloch?"

 
          
There
was a moment of electric silence before Nathaniel answered. "Yes,
Colin," he said gently.

 
          
"When
I spoke to him today
—
" Colin found himself pausing, and forced himself to
go on. "When I spoke to him, he made the assumption that I was acting on
Truth Palmer's behalf. He mentioned Pilgrim
—
in the vaguest possible
way, of course. I don't want to sound a false alarm, but
—
"

 
          
"Better
a thousand false alarms than no true warning," Nathaniel said somberly.
"Pilgrim is here, safe in my care. He has no visitors and would not know
them if he did. What is Hasloch's interest?"

 
          
"Unfortunately,
he didn't tell me. I'll have to ask him the next time I see him," Colin
said. There was a silence.

 
          
"Is
there anything else I need to know?" Nathaniel asked.

 
          
Colin
debated. But if he did not want to involve Truth, someone must know.
"Claire's cousin, Rowan Moorcock, disappeared while investigating the
Thulists, and the trail leads right to Toller Hasloch and something called the
Cincinnatus Group."

 
          
"Ah."
There was no inflection in Nathaniel's voice. "Good hunting, then, Colin.
And take care."

 
          
"As
much as I can, old friend," Colin answered. "Walk in the Light,
Nathaniel."

 
          
"And
you, Colin. Always."

 
          
*       
*        *

 
          
When
Colin hung up the phone, his duty discharged, he felt a great wave of weariness
sweep over him, taking his strength as the riptide takes the unwary swimmer.
He'd lived a quarter of a century wishing his murder of Hasloch undone, and
when, in one searing moment, he found that it had been, Colin's guilt had been
transformed as well. Hasloch was evil, a creature forged out of the dark heart
of creation for only one task, just as Colin had been forged as a sword and
shield to defy him. Colin could no more avoid his destiny than Hasloch could.
They had been fated to be enemies before either of them had been born.

 
          
What
might the world have been like if Hasloch had not been born into it? If the men
and women trusted by a nation had been trustworthy in truth, and had destroyed
what they had been sent to destroy? Instead, blinded by petty fears, dazzled by
the hope of money, of power, the defenders of the West had betrayed the Light
for a thousand base and unworthy reasons, many of them without even knowing the
true nature of the war they fought.

 
          
Colin
lay down on top of the bedspread, a part of him expecting to be able to feel
the necklace even through the mattress, like the princess in the fairy tale. A
part of his mind expected the phone to ring, though even Nathaniel did not know
where he was.

 
          
But
it didn't, and he slept.

 
          
The
Adept stood on a green hillside covered with tiny blue flowers whose scent was
like homecoming and the morning. He had always come back here, in the
interregnums between a thousand lives, seeking his absolution, the sign that
he had been forgiven at last. In the distance, he could see the golden towers
of the great
Temple
in which he had died, given
the Cup of Nepenthe to expiate his crime. Life after life he had been bound to
the Wheel
—
arrogance was always his besetting sin: pride, curiosity,
and a belief that Power was above the Law.

 
          
Power.
What his soul craved. Power, always power, and mastery over the world that held
him. . . .

 
          
Colin
awoke with a start, wisps of the dream still echoing through his consciousness.
He had been taught that the gates of Time opened to the Adept in the shadows of
Death, so that in one brief moment the pattern that stretched back through more
lives than this could be glimpsed in its entirety. For the first time in his
existence, Colin looked toward that moment with dread
—
what would he see, when he
looked back across the
gulf
of
Time
that stretched back before
his birth?

 
          
He
sat up, running his hand through his hair. It was dusk: the service-strip signs
made a garish multicolored jumble in the road below his window. The memory that
was almost a fantasy dispelled like smoke, leaving behind it only a terrible
sense of responsibility.

 
          
Sleeping
in the middle of the day. They say that's a sign of age.
But the nap had
not refreshed him. Colin sat on the edge of the hotel bed and gazed out the
window at the airport sprawl, his mind as intractable as a rebellious beast of burden.
He shook his head, half-dazed with lingering exhaustion. He didn't have time
for this. He had to make some kind of a plan to deal with Hasloch.

 
          
He
knew now that Rowan was a prisoner of what lurked behind the facade of the
Cincinnatus Group. It was only a matter of time until Hasloch discovered that
Colin had come to
Washington
looking for her. Hasloch
would never believe in a deal that traded Rowan's liberty for silence, and,
more, he would not accept it. There was too much history between Hasloch and
Colin, too much anger.

 
          
A
lifetime's bitter dealing in the art of the possible made Colin consider the
other thing he might trade: Claire for Rowan. Claire would consent to it, Colin
was certain, and somewhere in the mechanics of the switch it should be possible
to win both women's freedom.

 
          
But
if he could plan a double cross, Hasloch could plan one too. Reluctantly,
Colin rejected the idea. There was too little chance that it would succeed. He
did not even know if Rowan was still alive to barter for.

 
          
Wearily,
Colin rubbed at his eyes. The wisps of his dream lingered, tormenting him with
a faint bewildering guilt and a sense of corruption, liabilities he could not
afford. He could not proceed in the task before him without a pure heart and
very clean hands.

 
          
But
what was his task? To save Rowan Moorcock, or to destroy Toller Hasloch? Colin
rubbed at his temples. So little to choose between the two goals in one sense
—
and in another, the whole
gulf of damnation lay between them.

 
          
Where
was the utility in saving one life while the Shadow took thousands?

 
          
Where
was the triumph in letting the Shadow seize a thousand single lives while
saying no single life was worth saving?

 
          
Who
savetb one life, it is as if he has saved the whole world.
Out of the
stillness of Colin's heart the answer came, and with that answer, the
perfection of his life's work. The nagging sense of unkept promises faded,
leaving clarity in its wake. This was the path that had been set out for him, a
thousand lives ago.

 
          
At
last Colin picked up the phone and dialed a number he had held unused in memory
for more than forty years.

 
          
Xavier's
was a trendy District "drinkeateria" located near Capitol Hill. As
such, it was well supplied with pseudo-Victorian stained glass, blond oak veneer,
and even a few ferns. It was the sort of place to which the tragically hip
repaired to meet and mate, as anonymous and impersonal as a paper cup.

 
          
The
message had been left at the desk of Colin's hotel sometime during the night:
spuriously intimate and relentlessly cheerful, suggesting that old friends meet
for a drink at Xavier's that evening. Almost out of simple curiosity, Colin
had come, though the message was from no one he'd ever heard of, and certainly
not from an old friend. But that really didn't matter. He had not called that
number to play things safe, but to redeem an old promise.

 
          
The
evening was rainy. The faceted windowpanes of the bar were sequined with
raindrops, and cars passing through the streets made hissing sounds like downhill
skiers. The man who sat down opposite him at the table near the window was a
stranger.

 
          
The
stranger's dark blue trenchcoat was dark with rain over the shoulders, and rain
had managed to get past the shield of his umbrella to star the surface of his
long, sleeked-back red hair with droplets. He was a young man, less than half
Colin's age, and wore a grey three-piece suit as if it were an unfamiliar
uniform. He did not take off his gloves.

 
          
"Professor
MacLaren
—
it's been quite a while since I had the privilege of
sitting in on one of your lectures," the young man said with careful
cheer.

 
          
Though
Colin did not remember every pupil he'd ever had
—
no teacher could
—
in that moment he was
certain that this young man had never been one of them. Perhaps it was the
amusement with which he watched Colin through fox-bright pale eyes, as if this
were all some sort of elaborate prank.

 
          
But
in that case, who was the victim?

 
          
"I
know you were sure I'd never amount to much
—
oh, don't try to deny it
—
but I have made something of
a success of myself. You see, here's my card."

 
          
It
appeared between his gloved fingers as if through a magician's trick. He held
it out and Colin took it.

 
          
"Hereward
Farrar. Consulting." No address or telephone number, I notice.

 
          
The
waitress approached. Farrar ordered a Kaliber; Colin was still nursing his
double Scotch.

 
          
It
was nearing
seven o'clock
, and workaholic
Washington
was starting to trickle in
for a drink before a working dinner or a late-evening meeting. The noise level
rose proportionately.

 
          
"And
what do you consult on these days, Mr. Farrar?" Colin asked.