Bradley, Marion Zimmer - Shadowgate 04 (97 page)

 
          
Here
in the Field of Stars, Colin came back to himself, shaken to the core of his
being by what he had learned. Truly, the forgetfulness those on the Path
brought with them into Life was a great mercy
—
how could he ever have lived
with the intimate knowledge of that great crime? He had labored a thousand
lifetimes since to atone for what he had done. . . his lives expended in Service
and acceptance, but at that moment, Colin did not feel it was enough.

 
          
"Yet
know this, Son of the Sun
—
that all Paths are spokes of the Wheel, leading but to one
Center. And that the greatest of the Mysteries is that Life proceeds from the
very hand of Death.
..."

 
          
Was
it all for this?
The man who was known in this life as Colin MacLaren asked.
Was it all for You
—
the betrayal and the rebirth
—
the pain, the shame, the
lives wasted?

 
          
"All,"
said the tolling voice within Colin's own heart. "For this is the center
of My Mystery: and all Life is Mine, I waste none.
..."

 
          
And
now it was for him to choose again, as he had chosen a thousand times in a thousand
lives, so that Perfect Freedom and the Divine Will were as one force.

 
          
The
man once called Riveda walked across the Field of Stars, and he could smell the
perfume of the flowers he crushed beneath his sandaled feet. The young woman
looked
up as he approached, and as he looked into her eyes he saw the
face of the daughter he had never seen
—
the child that ancient
magician had died without knowing. And he knew by this sign that the vast debt
was repaid at last, and he was to be free at last of the Great Wheel that bound
souls into matter.

 
          
He
reached out and took her hand. She startled as if awakening from a deep sleep,
staring at him in surprise.

 
          
"Eilantha,"
the once-Lord of the Grey-robes said. "I call you to awaken into Life.
Come with me."

 
          
The
feel of Rowan pulling her hand from his roused Colin to consciousness again. He
opened his eyes.

 
          
Rowan
was propped up on one elbow, regarding him warily, as if she were not quite
certain who he was. "Dr. MacLaren," she said blankly.

 
          
"Do
you know who I am?" Colin asked her. He felt as if he had simply dozed,
although he knew in his heart that what had transpired was much greater than
that, though the memory of all but the glory of the Presence was fast fading.
But he must know what she remembered
—
if anything
—
from her time in the
Overlight.

 
          
"You're
—
" She stopped.
"You know, I had this completely bizarre dream, where ..." Her voice
trailed off as she got a good look at her surroundings. "It wasn't a
dream. I was there
—
on that hill where the
Secret
School
meets. And so were
you."

 
          
The
Secret
School
. The name given by many who
visited it only in dream and spirit to the
Temple
of the Sun. It seemed his
original instinct had played him false: if Rowan knew of that place, she was no
superficial participant or dilettante of the obscure.

 
          
"No.
It was no dream, Rowan," Colin said, even while a part of him wondered:
This
woman? This girl? SHE is to be my
chela.^ How could he teach her? What did
he have to say to her?

 
          
What
I must. What we have chosen together, she and I.

 
          
Her
memory of the experience she'd had in the Overlight was fading quickly
—
Colin could see that in her
eyes
—
to
be replaced by the awareness of this place and its attendant horrors. She sat
up, groaning with the stiffness of long-unused muscles.

 
          
"What
happened? The door's open
—
did Dylan get the message? I've been hiding out for months,
trying to get somebody to just
listen,
but it sounds just too
X-Files
for anyone to take seriously
—
there's a man named Toller Hasloch. He's a big-shot
Washington
lawyer, and he's murdered
at least eight people that I know of. He's got a whole Nazi temple down here,
and there's this presidential candidate. ..."

 
          
"There
isn't much time," Colin said, interrupting her. "We've got to get you
out of here, but there's one thing you must do first, for your protection. You
must take the Oath on the physical plane that you have already taken on the
Astral, and place yourself beyond Hasloch's power to harm you in any way that
matters. By the Power I bear, I seal and sign you to the Power, to Serve the
Light until Time itself should end. Is this your True Will?" Colin asked
as he raised his hand in the Sign. Irrelevant to Rowan or not, the question
must be asked
—
and answered.

 
          
"Yeah,
okay, right, I'm there," Rowan said, waving her hands in agitation.
"Skip all the Ancient Atlantis stuff, Dr. MacLaren. I've got it. I believe
you. I'm in."

 
          
Colin
winced inwardly. This was going to be just as difficult as he'd imagined it
would. Paradoxically, the thought made him smile.

 
          
"Where
do we go from here?"

 
          
Rowan
lurched to her feet and leaned against the mesh, reaching out a hand to help
Colin up. He could tell she was weaker than she would have liked him to know
—
he did not know, and
suspected that Rowan didn't either, how many days she'd lain unconscious on the
floor of that cell. Fortunately, she did not have to walk far
—
once they were back in the
house upstairs, Colin would happily call the police himself.

 
          
"We
leave," Colin said, steadying himself against the steel mesh of the cage.
"Come on." Rowan was safe. All the rest could wait.

 
          
Rowan
drew breath to argue, and shook her head, giving in instead. She picked up her
purse from where Colin had set it on the floor of the cell and slung it over
her shoulder, staggering as it pulled her off balance. Colin could see the
lines of pain and strain etch themselves into her face as she settled deeper
into the awareness of her physical body.

 
          
"You're
the boss," she said gamely.

 
          
Colin
pushed through the half-open draperies. The figure on the cross gleamed in the
dimness, its carven wounds seeming to shed fresh blood. Colin forced himself to
take that first step forward, into the space before the altar.

 
          
"Sick,"
Rowan commented from behind him, though whether it was an announcement or a
judgment Colin wasn't sure.

 
          
Glancing
back, he saw her shake her head, as balked by the atmosphere of the temple as a
non-Sensitive would be by a brick wall. He wondered if all those who so
blithely claimed great psychic power would as happily embrace its dark side:
the vulnerability to invisible forces to which the non-Sensitive was immune. It
was this vulnerability and the misunderstandings it engendered which led to
the persecution and madness of so many with the Gift. Colin heard her draw a
shaky breath, gathering her strength to face that thing.

 
          
"Come
on," Colin said, encouragingly. He held out his hand. "It isn't
far."

 
          
"But
farther, I think, than you're ever going to go."

 
          
Toller
Hasloch stepped through the door.

 
          
He
was dressed for the office
—
one more note of incongruity in this peculiar place. A
mate to the pendant Colin had found in Rowan's kitchen gleamed against his silk
tie, an archaicism that had no place in the modern world.

 
          
"Oh,
Colin," Hasloch said chidingly. "You're far too predictable. As soon
as I realized why you'd come to visit me, I also realized that of course you
would try to rescue the fair maiden
—
and of course I would be
right here to stop you. I even turned the alarm system off so we wouldn't be
interrupted
—
I would have left the doors unlocked if I'd known you were
coming today, but I'm glad to see you didn't have any trouble."

 
          
There
was a gun in his hand: in some sense, Colin would have been disappointed if
there were not.

 
          
"The
only thing I'm wondering now is whether you'd like to live a little longer, and
see what's going to happen to the girl, or if I should just indulge myself and
shoot you now? What do you think? It might be worth it to you
—
a bit more life, and the
hope I'll make a mistake you can use?" Hasloch's voice was genial.
Playful.

 
          
Behind
him, Colin heard Rowan's whimper of disappointment and felt her begin to move
away from him.

 
          
"You
can't shoot us both at the same time," Rowan said gamely. She had edged
away from Colin, inching toward the door.

 
          
"Don't
move, my little
Mischling,"
Hasloch snapped. "I'll shoot you
first, if I must
—
and I can't miss at this distance."

 
          
"Stay
where you are, Rowan," Colin told her, and once more, through the invisible
current of their mutually binding Oath, he felt her reluctant obedience.

 
          
"What
is it you want, Toller? You must want something, or you'd have shot us both by
now," Colin said. Every moment he kept Hasloch's attention on him gave
Rowan more chance to recover. If she could gather the strength to run, there
was a slim chance she might make it
—
and even a slim chance was
better than what she faced down here.

 
          
"While
a bullet is an effective way of ending debate, I admit it lacks elegance,"
Hasloch said graciously. "Just once before you die, you belligerent old
fossil, I'd like you to admit that I'm right."

 
          
Colin
nearly laughed aloud, then his eyes narrowed.
"The thing to remember
about Fritz is that he wants to be loved. The Germans are notoriously
sentimental and self-pitying for a bunch of murderers. If you're caught, you
might be able to play on that to buy yourself some time."

 
          
The
words of a long-ago trainer were as clear in Colin's mind as if they had just
been spoken. And though Hasloch had been born and bred an American, he, too,
possessed that same fatal, self-indulgent flaw. He didn't just want to win: he
wanted everyone to recognize that he
deserved
to win.

 
          
"You're
holding us both here at gunpoint, intending to torture us to death at your
convenience, and you want to hold a debate? Fine with me, sonny boy,"
Colin said, manufacturing a sneer. Hasloch had always liked to make speeches.
Perhaps he'd make one now.

 
          
"Oh,
come now," Hasloch said, coaxingly. "You've chosen our last two battlefields
—
let me choose this one. A
last passage at arms with a worthy
—
or at least persistent
—
adversary. Admit your defeat
—
your failure
—
and I'll even let you go:
you'll live out your days knowing that you gave your whole life to a lie, and
served something that you ought, by your own code, to have loathed."