by Carl Sargent
“He’s got a good precedent for that.” Streak chipped in. “Let’s hope nobody nails this bloke to a tree for doing it.”
“Yeah.” Geraint said. “But do we believe it?” There was a long silence. Michael broke it.
“We were there.”
“Sure.”
“And we got it from the horse’s mouth.”
“So what are you saying?”
“I think I believe him.” Michael said, as though weighing every word. “And if that means that I think history is a lie and a lot of people have suffered and been deceived for two thousand years because of that, then I think . . . I think I believe that too. But don’t quote me.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.” Geraint gave a small, surprised laugh. “I reckon, however that I just might agree with you.”
* * *
Serrin got away with Kristen in the early afternoon and began to drive westward. He didn’t know if he’d be expected, but when he arrived at the end of one of those English early-summer afternoons of real beauty and pleasantness, the cat, at least, was waiting for them. He’d known it would be.
“Hello, puss.” Serrin said. “I have the same gift for you as before, but this time I shall retreat at once so that you can enjoy it without being embarrassed.” He knelt down and placed the catnip-stuffed cloth mouse before the cat’s front paws, got up, and walked away without looking back. The cat dragged the mouse off under a lavender bush and began to savage it.
Merlin opened the door and looked out uncertainly, even slightly fearful, his eyes darting from one of them to the other.
“Are you all right?’
“I think so.” Serrin said, patting him on the shoulder. It might have seemed odd to him once; this was not a being of flesh and blood, but the spirit had a naive kindness rarely found in beings so made. The old elf was at the foot of the stairs, about to ascend them, and he turned at the sound of visitors. When he saw Serrin and Kristen, he smiled faintly and waved them in.
“He was telling the truth, wasn’t he?” Serrin asked, hardly waiting to be seated before beginning his questions. History records him as Leonardo. I have no idea what other names and faces he may have worn.”
“He has had many but, unlike some of us, he’s always been very careful about that.” Hessler agreed. “Often he has lived very quietly, especially when the mana was low, but he always becomes restless after a time, it’s been hard for him to disguise himself. He is known among us for his brilliance. It is reflected in his true name, but I could hardly tell you that.” The old elf smiled at the appropriateness of his expression. Reflection was the ideal word.
“I’d begun to wonder, for some time now, about how some of our people have beliefs about the return of spirits and the paths and the wheel of existences.” Serrin said. “And it has somehow never seemed quite right to me.”
“It is a belief carefully fostered.” Hessler said deliberately.
“It is not that we return to other lives. Some of the People live very long lives indeed.” Serrin said quietly. “Once or twice I have heard whispers, less than rumors really. I did not take them seriously at the time. They seemed, well, so wild.”
Hessler smiled. “I am glad to hear it.”
“You are one such.” Serrin said. it was a statement rather than a query.
“I am.” the elf affirmed. “But, of course, I trust that you will never mention this to anyone. I have seriously misjudged you if you do.”
“Of course not.” Serrin protested. “I just needed to know. For myself.”
“Then you should consider carefully the offer that was made to you.”
“By Leonardo? I still can’t get used to calling him that.”
“Get used to it. It is who he was and how he wishes to be known still.”
“The other things” Serrin said slowly. “His belief. What he called his passion. Isis. What of her?”
“Now that.” Hessler said carefully and in measured tones, “is something about which I cannot instruct you. That is an understanding that comes only through initiation. Some things one cannot give to another in words, because words are not enough to express their force and true nature.”
“But was it true? Is the history of the West such a lie then?
“No, wait, I know.” Serrin laughed after his flash of intuition. “You’re going to tell me that it depends on what is meant by truth.”
Hessler joined in the laughter for a moment, and then looked serious once more.
“It is so. If you want to know his truth, then you had better go to him. Only he can tell you.”
“But his so-called Great Work, Is it a lie or an illusion? Would I be wasting my time?”
“Oh, no.” Hessler said, very swiftly it seemed. “That you would not. The danger he speaks of is all too real. I wish more of us would come to terms with it. But some are dilettantes, some are resigned, some have lost the will after so many years, and as for one or two of those who were once among us–” He broke off with a slight shake of the head. “No, we won’t speak of that . . .”
“They have been here before.” he went on, “and lain waste to every living thing they could ravage. No, Serrin, this is no illusion nor lie. That is why he calls his inventions toys, why Merlin told you that wrecking those computer systems didn’t matter. Oh yes, I know he did, he’s been rather indiscreet.” He laughed again. “But I expect that of him. The wonderful thing is, he’s always indiscreet within my own limits of indiscretion.”
They both laughed now, and Serrin sat quietly with his hands wrapped around those of his wife, thinking deeply.
“So you think I should go.”
“Not least.” Hessler said, “because you did inadvertently make some enemies once or twice and I know that some powerful mages have a mark on you.”
“Those of Tír na nÓg, Yes.” Serrin wondered how Hessler knew about that old skirmish, then realized he’d have been more surprised if the other elf hadn’t known.
“Go to him and such troubles will vanish like dew on the grass this morning.” Hessler told him. “If Kristen agrees.”
“I had thought of asking her, when we got home.”
“You missed it, you know. Merlin said something to you. He told you that she was important, and you missed it. The Black Madonna.” Hessler regarded Kristen with a gaze as old as Europe. “Your face, my dear, could have told them all they needed to know, if they hadn’t been so preoccupied with reason.”
She blessed him with a heavenly smile.
“I suppose that is so.” her husband agreed. “I have to know. Is it really true? You evaded me.”
“You want me to take responsibility for telling you whether two millennia of history is a lie?” Hessler asked him.
“I do.”
“I have lived long enough not to be lured into replying to such questions.”
* * *
As Serrin and Kristen strode hand in hand back down the path, Serrin’s mind was far away in Scotland, down along the rugged coast under the gray skies, the cool of even a summer day, of the quietude and solitariness of the land. He needed time to think.
“Do you want to go?” Kristen asked.
“Michael’s going to be there, I’m sure of it. He mentioned a few other names to me. There will be some remarkable minds there if he manages to persuade only half of them to come.”
He was obviously still wrestling with it, but she pressed him.
“Tell me. Do you really want to go?”
“Half of me does, but the other half is very unsure.” he confessed. “There’s also the matter of what you think. Damn it, I’m so happy just to be at home with you. Walking along those stony beaches, wrapped up against the weather. I’ve gotten used to the place. It suits a part of me so well. But maybe you’d like a place in the sun again. Tell the truth, Kristen.”
“I think.” she said playfully as he opened the passenger car of the door for her, “that anyone who calls the Black Madonna his passion is all right by me
. Even if he’s crazy. Maybe especially if he’s crazy.”
It was in her face then, it passed through his mind. The dark face was the biggest clue, the face on the icon. Kristen was with us every hour of every day and we just didn’t see it. I just hope that isn’t a rebuke to me. Looking at her face now, I think I know the answer.
“Why don’t we try some sun for a month or two and see what happens?” she said for him.
They got into the car and buckled their seatbelts. She turned and looked earnestly at him.
“Anyway, Merlin says we really ought to go.”
“You crafty little skullie.” He poked her in the ribs. “I thought you were just saying goodbye to him in the Kitchen.”
“He’ll be there from time to time, he says. He told me that Leonardo can get rid of the mark those Irish mages have on you. When they took blood from you, when you crossed them. You’d be safe. No more bloody long hours crafting those rituals to protect yourself.”
“It isn’t just for me, you know that.” he protested rather weakly. He felt himself accused of spending too much time on his own, and what made the accusation hurt was that it was true.
“I know.” she said, slipping an arm around his waist. “But wouldn’t it be great not to have to worry anymore?”
“Yeah, it would.” A sudden spasm of hurt and regret passed through him, and he couldn’t hide it. She leaned across and hugged him hard.
“Darling.” she said.
“Yes, frag it, it would be such a bloody relief.” he said in a thick voice, gritting his teeth to steady himself. It hurt to admit it.
He turned the key in the ignition and they headed for the highway.
* * *
Michael and Geraint sat drinking brandy together in the early evening, Streak having taken himself back south of the river with a hefty payoff ruining the smooth lines of his black jacket. That they would see him again they had little doubt.
“Well.” Michael said after the final phone call, “some kind of deal is being worked out. It’s just down to the details really. Apparently, our friend wants me to act as liaison for future arrangements with Renraku.”
“Why didn’t he just go to them with the deck and ask?” Goraint said. “Why all this fuss and games?”
“Part of it, for sure, was his beliefs.” Michael said, having pondered this long and hard. “He wanted witnesses. You have to admit that a lot of powerful people went to a frag of a lot of trouble to find him and try to erase him from the history books once and for all. People who weren’t involved with the Matrix thing. The Jesuits. The Priory.”
“Yeah, the Priory? What of them?”
“From what I can make of it they believe they’re the protectors of the Magdalene’s bloodline. And their initiation secret is his, the sacredness of the Magdalene rather than the Virgin. Their line, I think, is that they just didn’t want that being blown open. I’ve made some enquiries.” he told a surprised Welshman. “They’re only a small group now and when they got fragged at Rennes, what survived wasn’t organized enough to follow or hassle us.
“And I’ve been wondering, you know. What if I’d been alive for six hundred years or more? What if this guy isn’t lying? And what if I had a mind like his? I’d be bored as hell. Would I play games? You bet I would. But it was only partly a game. Partly it was bloody real. That bullet came within a few centimeters of Kristen’s head, remember.”
“We all got close enough at one time or another.” Geraint agreed. “I don’t think it was a game in play. it was a game in earnest.”
“And let’s just entertain the possibility that he really has been around that long. Lets say he is or was Leonardo. Can you imagine talking with him? About Michaelangelo, Verrochio, the great artists and designers? About the Borgias and the Medicis? Not to mention all the times he’s lived through since! Let’s say he really was there. Talking with him would be incredible!”
“You’re taking his offer seriously.”
“With the Renraku money I am. Part of a second Renaissance? You bet I will. I could use the regular employment.”
Michael put down his glass, and changed tack. “Those cards.” he continued, wondering now. “Back in Florence. All those women. I thought you were reading something else.”
Geraint shook his head, realizing Michael had thought it had something to do with the Countess. “I knew a woman was on the mind of our target. So many of the major arcana, it was as clear as crystal. Unfortunately, I had no way of knowing just how that could be. And I damn well should have with that deck. Hang it, it was allegedly based on Egyptian designs. A fraudulent claim, but we were after the designer of a fraudulent shroud, and Isis is an Egyptian figure.
“It was bloody perfect.” he said. “And I didn’t see it.”
“You couldn’t have seen it.”
“Maybe not. Aw, sod it, Michael, I can see this bloody bottle of five-star and by God we’re going to finish it tonight.”
* * *
Hessler and Merlin took an evening stroll around the Tor, just as they were in the habit of doing at this time of day and at this time of year, weather permitting.
“Don’t you dare tell him the truth.” the elf said to the spirit. “He can find it out for himself.”
Merlin looked crestfallen.
“And you shouldn’t have told him to go. He needs to work that out for himself too.”
“I didn’t say anything to him.” Merlin protested.
“You said it to her.” Hessler retorted.
“Well, they should.” Merlin said with force. “They would be free then, after a fashion. Look how tight he’s locked up sometimes. It’s not fair to Kristen. Three months there and he’d be completely changed. I think he’d turn out to be a more fervent follower of Isis than our friend is, if that’s possible. With her as his inspiration. I couldn’t blame him.”
“A veritable Questor.” Hessler said quietly. “You might be right.”
“I can see into hearts more easily than you can sometimes.” the spirit said a little grumpily, as if justifying his right to an opinion.
“No, but you see the simpler things more quickly.” the elf said evenly.
“Sometimes that’s enough.” Merlin said firmly.
“You are rather rebellious this evening.” the elf said, and for a moment the spirit looked downcast, like a child faced with a parent’s disapproval. And then he saw the smile playing about the edges of the elf’s lips, and he mirrored it with one his own.
They walked into the beginnings of dusk, the long-striding spirit and the elf with the walking stick he leaned upon more heavily than he once had. And as they did so a cat, having abandoned the remains of a chewed cloth mouse, cast aside in the brambles with its stuffing torn asunder, followed close behind them, its amber eyes glittering in the golden light.
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
Carl Sargent was born in Wales in 1952, and has a background in academic psychology, with four non-fiction books on aspects of the paranormal to his name. A longtime writer of roleplaying games, he has had published over five million words of books, articles, reviews games, and gamebooks.
Marc Gascoigne was horn in England in 1962 and has been a freelance author and editor for almost a decade. He, too, continues to add to a lengthy catalogue of fiction and non-fiction books, games, and articles.
Together they have written Streets of Blood and Nosferatu, two other novels in the Shadowrun® series. Shroud of Madness, the duo’s first Earthdawn® novel, was published in July 1995 by FASA.
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