Ghostlight (36 page)

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Authors: Marion Zimmer Bradley

BOOK: Ghostlight
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“Tell me that you'll join us,” Julian urged. “For Thorne's own blood to be absent from the scene of his greatest triumph would be a crime, don't you agree?”
“Light will be there,” Truth said without thinking.
“True,” Julian agreed. “But all Thorne's children should be.”
“I … I'll think about it,” Truth said as she had before.
“I'll even admit that part of my desire is purely selfish: If you aren't working with us, I'll hardly see you at all in the next week,” Julian added.
“Are magicians supposed to be selfish?” Truth asked, striving for a light tone.
“Join us, and I'll show you just what magicians are,” Julian said, his voice a velvet promise. But he took her continued refusal in good humor and, kissing her lightly upon the forehead, departed to his magick.
After he was gone she almost wished she had gone with him. She'd never before noticed how flat and empty
Shadow's Gate seemed at night—as if, in Julian's absence, it was a theater without a play.
She glanced at the mantel clock. Nine twenty-three. So much for the frantic nightlife of the super rich. Truth yawned, remembering how short on sleep she'd been these past few days. An early night would do her no harm, either.
She went upstairs to her room. The bed was turned back—it must be Irene who did these things, as Truth could not imagine this much domesticity from Fiona, nor that Fiona would do these things for her even if she did them for everyone else—and her nightclothes were laid out. She'd just write up the day's events in her diary before turning in.
She undressed and got ready for bed, switching on the enormous tape recorder as she did so. Most of the failures to record psychic phenomena, Dylan had always said, stemmed from failure to turn on the recorders. Truth wouldn't make that mistake—especially as events at Shadow's Gate seemed to wait on no particular calendar.
The massive reels began slowly to turn, and the needles flickered alertly across the dials. The machine made a muted “open mike” sound, faint enough that it could not be heard even from a few feet away. Each reel held twelve hours of tape—the machine should be set up to record through nine-thirty tomorrow morning. Truth checked that all the wires were tucked carefully out of the way—to minimize disruption, none of the Institute's ghosthunting equipment ran off house current; each had it own massive rechargeable battery pack, which should power it for at least a week. And a week's time was all she needed.
She pressed the “test” button. The battery's LED display lit redly: 87 percent power. More than enough.
Testing the recorder's battery reminded her once again of Julian's warning about battery life at Shadow's Gate, and she tested her cell phone, dialing her home number
and being miraculously rewarded with the sound of her answering machine. The phone was working, at least. Why some times and not others? It made no sense.
Nothing here made any sense.
She hesitated over trying Dylan again and finally dismissed the idea. It was late, she was tired—and the equipment was working as well as it was going to, anyway. Truth got into bed with her journal and began to record the day's events.
She was feeling pleasantly sleepy by the time she was done, and got up to take one last look at the recorder.
It wasn't working.
It took her a few moments to register the fact. How could it not be running? Nevertheless, the needles all lay flat at the end of their dials, and all the status lights were out.
Had the plug worked loose? But this equipment was designed to foil poltergeists—the plug was locked into the battery with two metal flanges. Truth flipped up the guard on the battery's “test” button and pressed it, but the LED display stayed dark.
But it had been working earlier. It had been at nearly full charge earlier.
She glanced at the wall socket. She could plug the recorder directly into the house current. It was tempting, but she already knew how untrustworthy the power was here—if she plugged the recorder into the house she risked a power surge that would scramble its delicate little innards for good. Sighing, all thought of sleep banished by exasperation, Truth switched off the reel-to-reel and unhooked it from the battery pack. She plugged the battery into the wall, where a green “charging” light and a weak flutter of needles reassured her that the laws of physics still worked.
What about the others? Truth groaned, belted on her bathrobe, shrugged her feet into slippers, and went downstairs.
There were three cameras and a polybarometer in the library. The battery pack on one of the cameras was dead; the other three batteries showed 33, 17, and 40 percent power, respectively, although they'd all been between 80 and 90 percent when she'd hooked up the equipment and tested it. The timers on all three cameras were scrambled as well; not knowing the cycle for the manifestations centering on the library, Truth had set them each to take a picture once an hour. One of the cameras had run through its entire roll of film already—Truth winced; as Dylan had said, the fast film was expensive—and one had been reset to take a photograph every six hours. The third had been changed to manual operation.
It would be so comforting to think this was sabotage
, Truth reflected. Comforting, but unlikely—Julian had shown very little interest in interfering with her investigations, and she doubted that was an act.
She switched the polybarometer to the battery with the 40 percent charge—though at the rate the batteries were draining it probably wouldn't last out the night—and looked around for outlets to plug the other three batteries into for charging. She found outlets for two in the library—the batteries seemed to charge normally once they were plugged in, at any rate—and decided to forget about the other one for the time being. At least she now had some proof of Julian's claims about failing batteries.
When she was done with the equipment in the library, sleep seemed the farthest possible thing from her mind, and a rumbling in her stomach reminded her that she'd been too keyed up to eat much at dinner.
A nice cup of cocoa, as Irene would say, heals all wounds. That's what I need.
The thin line of light beneath the door warned her that the kitchen was already occupied, but although he was the only possible person who could be there tonight, Truth wasn't really prepared to see Michael standing in front of the stove, intent upon a saucepan.
His jacket and vest were thrown over a chair and the sleeves of his white shirt were rolled up to just below the elbow. His shirt collar was unbuttoned as well—without the armor of his formal dress Michael seemed absurdly young. The strong odor of chocolate wafted up from the saucepan as Michael gave its contents another stir.
“I guess we both had the same idea?” Truth said. She supposed she ought to be embarrassed showing up in front of Michael in a robe and pajamas, but it was a good heavy robe and the pajamas were far more concealing than many street clothes. And Michael was not her idea of a romantic object, anyway. There was something too … alien … about him.
What a peculiar thing to think. Light likes him.
“Cocoa?” Michael said. He smiled at her. “There's enough for two.”
Truth nodded, and took one of the brownies left over from the evening's dessert and sat down at the kitchen table. Michael brought over the saucepan and two white china mugs. Deftly, he poured each of them full and sat down.
“Julian plans to close the house in November,” Truth said, approaching her subject obliquely.
“I believe he would,” Michael said.
“Would,” not “will.”
“Don't you believe him?” Truth challenged.
Michael met her eyes directly, and once more Truth had that unsettled feeling of peril.
“I believe that Julian believes … that there is no reason to plan beyond October thirty-first,” Michael said carefully.
“The day of his final ritual,” Truth amplified. Michael nodded.
Was Michael implying that Julian was crazy? And how reliable a source was
Michael
anyway, if it was sanity that was in question?
“What do you suppose will happen, when …”
When
he finds out it hasn't worked
, Truth couldn't quite bring herself to say.
“Let me ask you a question in turn: What do you think Julian will do with the power he gains from opening the way for pagan gods to walk the Earth once more?”
“Thorne Blackburn always said that Opening the Way would inaugurate a new golden age,” Truth said slowly.
“Admirably vague,” Michael said with an angry smile.
“So you think Julian doesn't have the human race's best interests at heart?”
Just what I need; another inconclusive conversation with a nutcase. Well, at least this one's alive.
“Do you?” Michael shot back. “Think carefully: Pure altruism is nearly as rare as disinterested kindness in this world.”
“I thought you were supposed to be his friend,” Truth said, starting to get annoyed. Her feelings for Julian were too confused to withstand much examination, but she did know that she didn't like hearing this tissue of innuendo from Michael.
“I am his friend,” Michael said. “Perhaps the only one he has left—and certainly the one he needs most.”
“Well isn't that just peachy for both of you,” Truth snapped. She drained her cup and stood up. “Just tell me one thing, Michael: You hate magick, don't believe in studying the unknown, and you think Julian's crazy. Just what are you doing here?”
Michael looked up at her, and in his eyes Truth saw a fury and pain that made her irritated frustration seem in the worst of taste, as if she mocked a man who had already received his death wound.
“I am here because here is where I must be,” Michael said, “because Good cannot act in the absence of Evil. I have fewer choices than he has.”
“Michael, I need you to talk rationally to me,” Truth said desperately. “I need you to tell me the truth.”
“‘What is truth? said jesting Pilate,'” Michael quoted
bitterly. “Very well: the truth. If you remain here, you imperil your immortal soul. It is possible that you will be offered the chance to renounce your certainty of heaven. It is possible that you will take it. That renunciation will cost you the light, Truth—you will walk in shadows all the rest of your days.”
“That's … gibberish,” Truth said forlornly.
“It is the truth,” Michael said sadly, “but you do not understand it. And once you do—I think you will have passed beyond the time when you are still free to choose.”
“I've told you I don't believe in … your religion,” Truth said diffidently.
“Your belief is not necessary for its existence—or its truth,” Michael said. “It
is.
”
She could talk to Michael no more than she could to the others, Truth realized sadly. Michael held to a faith that shaped his world—and without accepting its reality, how could the two of them talk together?
“Good night, Michael,” Truth finally said, going to the sink to rinse her cup.
“Sleep well,” Michael Archangel said.
 
On her way up to bed she detoured past Light's room. Light was already down in the temple with the others, and her room was empty.
Venus Afflicted
was still where Truth had left it.
It remained there for the next nine days.
THE HOUR OF TRUTH
Time's glory is to calm contending kings,
To unmask falsehood, and bring truth to light.
—WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
 
 
 
OCTOBER 30TH WAS A SUNDAY, AND TRUTH SPENT IT as she had spent every day of the past week or more—in the Blackburn collection at Shadow's Gate. By now she had a pile of notes that rivaled her source material for sheer word count, and even a rough outline of her book. There would be chapters covering Thorne's early life and the evolution of his “followers” after his death, but the meat of the book would still be Thorne's public career in all its scandalous excess, just as she had originally planned.
Only the excesses didn't seem quite so scandalous anymore.
She tried to ignore the inner voice that told her Thorne was no more excessive than his contemporaries, that his own sincere belief blurred if not eradicated the line, if not between con man and visionary, then at least between con man and crackpot. Thorne had
believed
—he hadn't been trying to steal money to enrich himself.
And in one sense he had not stolen at all—the wealth
which his devotees had heaped upon him had all gone into achieving his vision, leaving nothing behind.
Even his lies had been an exercise in honesty—if he told his followers unbelievable stories about his past and his exploits, it was precisely so they wouldn't believe him—or anyone else who tried to fool them. Thorne had been raised in a world where the example of Hitler's madness was still fresh—what he had wanted most was to create a world of demigods, not followers.
How could it all have gone so wrong, Father—how?
But chasing Thorne had not been all that Truth had to occupy her during that time. There was also the matter of the batteries.
When she'd finally gone back upstairs that night, the cell phone had been dead as well, and Truth had repressed the momentary impulse to fling the useless thing out of her bedroom window. She'd told herself she'd see tomorrow if she could get it working again, and thus had begun a frustrating and intermittent week-long struggle with batteries and chargers that had finally caused her to give up in disgust. But that wasn't the worst of it.
To Julian's affectionate, ill-concealed amusement, none of the battery packs for Dylan's ghosthunting equipment would hold a charge for more than a few hours, no matter what she did. It hardly mattered that Dylan hadn't sent more film for the cameras—she hadn't managed to use up what she had.
Not that she'd missed much by having no equipment available. Except for its pernicious effect on her batteries, Shadow's Gate had been meek as a little lamb. Rooms stayed where they belonged and so did pictures. She didn't even see Thorne Blackburn, and Truth was surprised to find how much she missed that. She'd been becoming fond of the old rogue; as if he were a wicked uncle with deplorable habits who was, nonetheless, part of the family. She would miss him when she left Shadow's Gate.
She looked around the library room, chewing on her
pen. The curtainless windows admitted cascades of white October light. Caradoc was sitting at the other table surrounded by several books on magick. Truth had looked into them and found them incomprehensibly technical, but Caradoc did not seem to be having any trouble—he worked steadily, checking one against the other, and making notes in a large, black-bound sketchbook. He was wholly engrossed in his work—these days, all the Circle of Truth was occupied by the Work, focusing all their attention on perfecting their performance of Thorne's elaborate rituals. She hardly saw any of them these days, except at dinner.
A theater built for one … and one they aren't even sure is coming,
Truth thought to herself whimsically. To her uninitiated perceptions, it was very much as if Julian's Circle were putting on a long elaborate full-dress play every night—and spending all their other waking hours rehearsing for it, as well as building the sets and compounding the makeup. Well, better them than her, although she'd been laboring hard herself, and her work with the Blackburn Library was nearly done.
She'd be leaving soon, Truth thought idly. She'd copied out by hand most of the documents she'd need to refer to later. And besides, Julian would be turning his attention to other matters once the Opening of the Way was done; there'd be no place for her here.
The final ritual was tomorrow night.
Truth blinked and looked around, as mazed as if she were awakening from some long dream. Tomorrow night was Halloween, and Julian's final ritual.
Where had the time gone? Over a week, and she'd drifted right through it as if she had all the time in the world. And now there was no more time.
That knowledge was as alarming as anything else that had happened to her here, and the sudden sense of urgency that replaced it was smothering—as if the house itself had abruptly awakened.
Where in God's name had her mind been—she hadn't even driven home to Stormlakken for Aunt Caroline's memorial service!
Truth got slowly to her feet, feeling slightly dizzy. On the floor beside the fireplace, Light looked up when Truth looked at her, and smiled, then went back to playing cat's cradle with a length of white string onto which one silver bead had been threaded.
Truth groaned inwardly. She'd felt so smugly industrious, and now she realized that she'd been concentrating on busywork to shield her from her real work. She should have tried harder to get Light away from here; found out more about the backgrounds of the others and their reasons for being here—found out more about Julian, for God's sake; money like that didn't just sprout out of the ground like dragon's teeth …
She hadn't even tried to call Dylan back once she'd given up on the cell phone. Meg would have given him her message, but after that—nothing.
Well, that much she could remedy right now.
 
She felt no qualms about going into Julian's office—if he had the only phone at Shadow's Gate he must be used to all sorts of interruptions by now—but in fact she was not interrupting him; Julian wasn't there.
Truth went to the desk and raised the phone from the cradle. She held it to her ear. Nothing.
She joggled the button a few times—a useless habit picked up from old movies—and as she did Truth became aware of a strange smell in the room, a bitter, musty scent, pervasive but oddly pleasant.
The phone was obviously useless, though the weather had been reasonably clear, so its present failure could not be blamed on power outages. Truth returned the receiver to the cradle, and as she did her eye fell upon Julian's Day-Timer, open on the blotter.
I shouldn't look,
Truth told herself, and did. Not that
her snooping gained her anything. Most of the entries were in strings of gobbledygook symbols, except for one today that was written in plain English:
See Ellis.
About what, I wonder?
Truth mused, but this really was none of her business, so she forced herself to leave the desk diary alone and leave before anything embarrassing happened.
She went back to the library, but she now felt as restless as she'd been placid. Light stared at her for a long moment before returning to her elaborate game of making the silver bead slide back and forth among the cords. Watching her, Truth made up her mind to go down to Shadowkill and try to phone Dylan from there when an even more useful idea occurred to her.
She would do what she ought to have done much earlier. She would send all her log notes to Dylan and ask him to review them. He wouldn't see her visions of Thorne as evidence of a moral failing—anything from self-delusion to true psychism, yes, but not as some nebulous indicator of Truth's personal immorality.
She could trust Dylan.
And she'd send
Venus Afflicted
away from here too—to herself at the college. Maybe she could get it copied in town and send a copy to Dylan—she suspected that Dylan was more of a Blackburn scholar than he'd ever wanted her to know, though without crossing the line into occultism. Perhaps he could help her think of a way to defuse that dangerous book.
She hadn't wanted to do these things before—but that was, Truth knew now, because she hadn't felt
strong
enough before to survive their inevitable aftermath. But as she'd all but slumbered here at Shadow's Gate something deep within her had changed, something about the way she defined herself; and admitting to Dylan that she needed help no longer frightened her. Needing help did not diminish her. Everyone needed help sometimes; that was the way of the world.
She gathered up her notes and left the library. Today was Sunday—she would put her package in the mail the moment the post office opened tomorrow.
The first thing to do—while she knew where Light was—was to retrieve
Venus Afflicted.
Truth ascended the stairs to Light's third-floor aerie. The book was right where she had left it—so, for that matter, was the necklace, despite Thorne's demands—and she retrieved both and brought them back to her room. She tucked the necklace into a drawer and began making up a parcel of the items she meant to send to Dylan—her voice tapes, her notebook and log, the material she'd gathered on the haunted history of Shadow's Gate. The finished stack was large enough that she'd need a sturdy box for it.
Perhaps there was one downstairs. Probably Hoskins would know—or she might be able to find Irene.
She took one last glance at the pile from the doorway. The book was thoroughly buried in other papers, unnoticeable. She went out, closing the door behind her.
 
It took her about half an hour to track down box, tape, and wrapping paper, but Hoskins was helpful and she didn't have to bother Irene—not that finding Irene would have been easy. These days the entire house was like an enormous engine, dedicated to the Work, and everyone's waking moments seemed to be focused on it, either in meditation, rehearsal, or private ritual, or in fashioning the various paints, oils, teas, and incenses that seemed to be so necessary—freshly made—to each night's performance. It made Truth a little uneasy, although she was well used to such discipline when she encountered it in academic circles.
She got back to her room, thought of composing a cover letter for the material, then decided she could just as well tell Dylan it was coming when she called him. She'd pack the box, leave it in the trunk of her car overnight to
be doubly sure it was safe, and walk on down to the village today and give Dylan that call she owed him. The walk would be good exercise: She couldn't remember the last time she'd left Shadow's Gate, once the house had stopped trying to push her away.
And if it had, why?
It was as if, in some bizarre fashion, Shadow's Gate had finally welcomed her in.
She opened the box and started filling it.
Venus Afflicted
wasn't here.
At first she thought she had to be mistaken. She searched the pile paper by paper, then all the other piles of paper, then every inch of the room.
It wasn't here.
They'd gotten it. After all her care, after all her
planning,
just when she'd been about to put it beyond their reach forever, they'd gotten it.
She felt an anger all out of proportion to the offense, as if the house, awakening, was feeding all its surging madness through her. Pure unreasonable fury surged through her veins, as if her blood had been turned to fire. She was tired of making nice, of letting them lull her with how reasonable they were. She was tired of going along, of being sensible. This was too much.
She was going to Julian. She was going to demand her book back—it was
hers
; Thorne was dead and it was
hers
—it was her heritage!
She didn't think past that moment of confrontation; she couldn't. When she threw open the door to her room it hit the wall with a popping sound like a rifle shot.
She felt the house try to pull her away, to confuse her, and used her anger like a sword to cut through its coils of influence. For the first time she tasted the power that went with her birthright, and embraced it gleefully even as some part of herself recoiled. She felt the house's power rebound upon itself, impotent, as she ran down the stairs.
“Julian?” Truth called, halfway down. Her voice had a dangerous edge.
Hereward crossed the black-and-white marble of the entryway, heading for the door. He glanced up as he saw her, but then the door was open, Hereward was holding the door as the men in white came in, carrying a gurney.
The sight jolted her back to some semblance of reason.
“Hereward?” she said, but he didn't stop, leading the EMTs down the hall.
Slowly, baffled, Truth came the rest of the way down the stairs. The front door was open. She could see an orange-and-white ambulance, its blue lights still flashing, parked in front of the steps.

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