“But the offerings have been prepared!” Searles protested. “There’s no time for -‘
“I don’t think there’ll be any need for prep-work on Jason,” Franklin said firmly as he placed the cleaver on the worktop. The blade reflected the dull yellow tusks of the boar and the glare of the fluorescent strip lighting. “He’ll be accepted as he is, I’m certain. She has been kept waiting too long for him. I don’t think she’ll be too…fussy.” His eyes fixed upon Cassell.
“I need you to keep an eye out for Hughes and any friend he brings along. If he knows about Michaels he’ll know what awaits Callaby. It is only a matter of time before he comes here.” He tapped a finger on Cassell’s tool. It rocked on the metal worktop, sending reflected flashes of light into the eyes of the Master and the head chef. “You just make sure that if they do find their way into the kitchens that they don’t leave in anything less than several large pieces.”
Cassell grinned. “Pieces, eh? Shame Callaby is spoken for. It would have been nice to reunite the lovers in death. Putting Hughes and Callaby together…it would make one hell of a jigsaw.”
Searles’ eyes blazed in disapproval of Cassell’s gallows humour. “As you said, Cassell. Callaby is spoken for. You will leave her alone. Perhaps we should leave you to continue your duties in peace.”
“Maybe you should, Master,” Cassell smirked. “I know how squeamish you are.”
Searles bristled. “Squeamish? That’s the least of the insults I’ve had spoken about me. If I am visibly affected by the sight of what you do, it is because I haven’t forgotten what it means to be human!”
Cassell took a step backwards, eyes widening. This was a side of the Master he hadn’t seen before. Real fire in him, anger that was not in his nature. It meant he really was close to breaking point.
“No matter,” Searles breathed. “I’ve already been through this matter with the Council. They can’t understand so I don’t expect a mere…cook will.”
He nodded towards the boar, a finger raised and pointed to the gaping hole in its belly before sweeping out of the kitchen.
“Enjoy your work, Cassell.”
* * * * *
Andy Hughes checked the side mirror. He’d lost sight of the green Mondeo down Trumpington Street and hadn’t seen it since. That meant Rob had decided to go in via the Queen’s Road access. Andy had been surprised by Rob’s suggestion, especially as it meant he might be meeting one of the Children of Andraste again.
But there was no fear in Rob at this possibility. Instead there was a look of anticipation, even hope. A chance to avenge the poor little bastard in the back of the van.
King’s Parade. King’s College passed by: the facade of its chapel rather small and insignificant now. The beauty of holiness was shabby and inconsequential in light of the knowledge of the afterlife Andy Hughes had obtained. No keys to Heaven, no blissful rest in the kingdom of God. Just eternal suffering at the hands of Andraste.
All Souls came towards him. The traffic slowed and brought his van to a halt, but the college buildings seemed to still rush towards him, the blackened clunch walls eager to swallow him. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Lightheaded, he realised. He wondered how much blood he’d lost over the last twenty four hours.
He hadn’t put the seatbelt on, knowing how much that would irritate his stomach wounds. He lifted his sweatshirt and grimaced at the fresh blood seeping through the bandages.
He looked up and saw the Green Man’s reflection through a haze of red.
The eyes were open and staring straight ahead at the college. The pupils glowed a savage red as flames billowed from its open mouth.
Andy took a deep breath. He put a tentative hand near the carving’s mouth and allowed the flames to lick at his fingertips.
Nothing. No pain, nor even any sensation of heat. He took his hand away and smiled.
“Well, well. You trying to tell me something, old man?”
The carving was silent. The unearthly glow from its eyes was its only answer. Blood, gleaming an unnatural scarlet, welling up before the eyelids blinked and the fluid ran down the carving’s cheeks. Tears of blood.
Now he knew what was going to happen. Black rock from the Divine Judgement - split from the meteor that struck over two hundred years ago. And now, finally, coming back to be reunited. He didn’t know how it was going to happen - it was welded solid to the bulkhead, it was only going to come free when it wanted to. And it had chosen him to take it.
He knew he wasn’t alone. He knew that Jason Franklin would be in the grounds as well, that he had to do the same thing as Andy. Because now he understood the significance of the two hundred horses that destroyed the college in his vision. Power.
Horsepower.
He turned the van into the gravelled driveway and noted grimly that the fiery reflection had gone. The carving was dead stone once more. The Elder’s message had been sent and understood.
Just let me get Jen out before I do what I have to do, he silently pleaded. Please let that part of the vision be true as well.
A porter came to the van and indicated for him to wind down the window.
“What are you doing here?” The porter was young and looked edgy. Andy searched for a tell tale bulge of a concealed firearm under the man’s armpit but couldn’t see one. The porter stared at the Granta Office Supplies logo on the panel then back to Andy.
“We’re not expecting any deliveries - my God!”
“You’re expecting this one,” Andy jerked a thumb over his shoulder, indicating the stone carving that caught the porter’s widened gaze. “Tell Franklin Andy Hughes is here. Then tell him I want the girl. Alive and unharmed.”
The porter took a step backwards, his eyes never leaving the carving. Andy grinned as the porter spoke into his two-way radio.
“…Hughes is here. Yes sir, you heard me! He’s got…bloody hell, it looks like Charles Harvey!”
“The girl. Jennifer Callaby.” Andy said tightly.
The porter spoke again into his radio, genuine bewilderment on his features. “He says he wants…Jennifer Callaby, whoever that is.” His eyes shot to Andy’s when he heard the answer.
“Stay here. Mr Franklin’s on his way.”
“I’m not going anywhere, son.” Andy watched the porter shuffle back into the lodge. He threw off the jacket that covered the SPAS 12 and rested his hand on the pistol grip.
* * * * *
Jason Franklin licked his lips nervously and stared out of the windscreen of the cook-chill van. The shadows cast on the bodywork by the ancient white oaks were moving, dark skeletal veins crawling over the rusted panels.
He took a deep, shuddering breath and squeezed the steering wheel.
Relax. He’ll come. The Elder won’t abandon me now, surely. He’d done everything asked of him. For the fifteenth time he took one of the cherry-scented antibacterial wipes from the tub in the cup-holder and cleaned the steel prong of the temperature probe. He tossed the used rag to the floor with the rest. There wasn’t a single trace of blood or grey matter on the weapon now.
He’d entered the West Gate of All Souls College just before eight o’clock. The gate had swung open automatically, the camera mounted on the railings inactive. He had driven the vehicle slowly up the gravelled pathway, expecting a porter to come rushing at him. Instead he had been allowed to drive into the woods unchallenged.
The van was now parked deep within the ancient grove, the snow covered oaks masking him from view. He had waited anxiously for over an hour for signs of life, a porter patrolling the woods coming across an unauthorised vehicle parked in a strictly forbidden zone, the call to the lodge, the inevitable wail of police sirens…
On the day of the Founder’s Feast, as well. He couldn’t believe it. Either the head porter had been sloppy with his security - not bloody likely - or perhaps his presence had been noted. Perhaps they were waiting for him to make the first move.
He wound down the window, shivering in the cold
morning air, listening for sounds of activity. Nothing. Not even birdsong.
He opened the door and stepped out, the snow and frozen leaf litter crunching underfoot like the bones of a small animal. He couldn’t even hear the distant hum of traffic from Queen’s Road. And it was so bloody cold. He hugged himself, teeth chattering loudly.
If you are cold, come and warm yourself. Come to the fire.
He turned and saw the van had vanished. In its place stood a roaring fire that leapt up at the lower branches of the frozen oaks. The branches shrank back, as though afraid of the flames.
The Elder stood behind them, his green robe almost glowing in the light of the fire. The fire threw strange and wonderful shadows over the inscrutable, emotionless but oh-so-welcome face.
The Elder raised a hand, beckoning him to come closer. Jason Franklin obeyed, tears of joy and relief running down his cheeks. He wanted to kneel, to prostrate himself, to give thanks to -
The hand turned, palm outwards. A signal to halt.
The flames reared and retreated, a clear parting formed in the centre of the inferno that allowed The Elder to step forward, unharmed.
Welcome to the Nemeton, Jason. You have done well.
Jason couldn’t speak. The smoke and heat made it difficult for him to even breathe - his emotions too overpowering for words to form. He stood still, feeling his tears evaporate from his cheeks.
It will not be long, Jason. Soon it will be over. The green eyes stared unblinking at him, the pupils boring into his with a crimson glow. With a sudden chill, Jason realised it was the same colour he had seen in the rising sun earlier.
The Other approaches. He brings with him my icon. He brings my Divine Judgement to the Fellowship. He brings death.
Jason could finally speak. “And me? What do I bring?”
Your own judgement - your awareness. You know now your identity was a lie, perpetuated by those close to you. Your own father denied you. You grew up believing yourself to be the son of another. You suspected for a long time - you knew this morning with my final message…
Anguish flooded Jason’s body. Lips bared to the morning sky, he roared aloud, giving vent to his anger and the betrayal. It brought no relief. Instead, it seemed to him that the flames of the fire caught his agonised feelings and flung them back at him, burning intensely.
The Elder looked at him, a hint of sympathy in those green and crimson eyes. He waited for Jason to look back to him before continuing.
In your dungeon you came to know the strength of your fury, the potential of your rage. It is a weapon available only to those who are born of the bloodline of the Fellowship. Harness this rage, Jason. Unleash it against your father.
Jason Franklin suddenly felt weak. The strength the anger had bestowed upon him seemed to leak away. His shoulders slumped and he felt tears in his eyes. Not tears of joy at finding The Elder, but tears of self pity.
He wasn’t meant to be. He was an accident, an unplanned pregnancy. A product of an indiscreet affair - or a one night stand - one that had been hushed up and denied.
He had no doubt that in an earlier age he would have been killed.
“So I’m a child of destiny then? Not an unwanted foetus but a product of fate. A weapon of justice. But a product first - a human being last, if at all.”
He turned his head from the fire. He wanted those tears to flow, not to be whisked away and evaporated by The Elder’s holy fire. He deserved that, at least.
“All I wanted…was a father!” The tears became a torrent, his wracking sobs louder than the roar of the flames. “For him to acknowledge me…love me…”
The Elder watched with annoyance as Jason continued his weeping. There was a harsher tone to his voice now.
This I cannot help you with, Jason. But remember this: your father’s refusal to offer you to Andraste last year was out of guilt, not love. Eventually he would have been swayed by the Council and would have offered you this year by Andraste’s command. He is a weak man. He would eventually give your body to the knives of the Fellowship and your soul unto Andraste.
You now have the chance to ensure this will not happen. You are not alone, nor are you unarmed. A faint smiled played at the corners of his mouth.
Jason wiped his nose on the sleeve of his sweatshirt. Not unarmed? Then he remembered the temperature probe and what it could do.
“And this…Other?”
He will also be armed. As will his associate - and it is his associate who will need aid. You must show him the kitchens. You must prevent Cassell preparing the meat.
“But The Other? You said he’ll defeat Andraste for good. How? What makes him so special?” He was aware of the petulant, whining tone of his voice and hated himself for it. He knew it was wrong to feel jealous, to think: Why him? Why can’t I do it all? It was the sort of thing a younger sibling would say when referring to a special honour bestowed upon an older brother. But who could blame him? He’d not exactly had a normal childhood, had he?
Dry your eyes, Jason. There was harshness in the voice now, the tone of an irritated father. Jason almost smiled at the thought.
The Other has been marked for this task by forces higher than I. It is not for me to question. He must defeat Andraste by offering himself to the One Power, the power to which I willingly bound myself. He will replace me…but only if he chooses to do so. And he can only make that choice with your help in defeating the Fellowship. Do this for me, Jason. Give your life meaning.
For the love of humanity.
Jason watched The Elder fade from sight with eyes bleary from weeping. The fire roared once, then faded and retreated into the remnants of its fuel. Embers glinted like the red pupils in the eyes of The Elder, faded to dust, and then memory.
Behind him the Luton awaited its driver. Jason sighed and pulled open the door. He twisted the key and the engine shuddered into something close to life. He flicked on the wipers to remove some of the snow that had fallen onto the windscreen from the trees.
He stared idly at the path leading back to the West Gate. He cocked his head. Sound at last. A motor vehicle. Think I know who this is.
He flashed the headlights in greeting. The driver of the Mondeo braked sharply, the wheels skidding and sending the car off the path. It bumped into one of the oaks with a soft thudding sound. Fresh snow clumps fell to the ground and rested on the dented wing.
Jason Franklin smiled as he took another antibacterial wipe from the drum and methodically squeezed it around the tip of the probe. He was still smiling when Rob Benson clambered out of the Mondeo and took aim with the Glock.
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
In the cellar beneath the chapel of All Souls David Searles stared at the naked, shivering girl with pity and horror. The pity was heartfelt, a genuine tearing in his heart.
But the horror was the stronger emotion. Horror that the first step in the ritual had begun, that other, worse tortures were to follow. Horror that he himself would soon take part in those tortures. Horror that this yearly ritual would never end: that he would perform it year after year until the day he was ready to die and handed over the position of Master to a newly elected Senior Member.
Each and every year, without fail. An unnatural part of the natural cycle of seasons, until the end of time.
For the love of humanity.
In the faint light cast by the candles nervous, watchful eyes peered out through the holes in wooden masks. They turned from the offering to the Master. Waiting for his first move. His first cut.
His palms were greasy with sweat beneath the heavy white robe. The sacrificial knife slithered in his grip like a venomous snake. He tightened his grip, thankful that the other members of the Council couldn’t see his revulsion, his self-hatred, as he steeled himself to perform what they saw as his natural duty.
Dear God in Heaven, I can’t do this. But what choice did he have? The Fellowship had made him fully aware that Andraste hadn’t forgiven his trespass against her in refusing to offer Jaso
n, that they couldn’t fail her again. Judith Cox had been ample warning.
Strike now. Administer the first cut then the rest will be easier. One girl, for the sake of the whole human race. Was it really such a terrible price to pay?
Of course it is! Torture a girl to death - for what? To give the human race another twelve months to tear itself apart? Another year of war, violence and suffering? Is it really worth it? Why not just cast away the blade - use it on my fellow murderers if necessary - deny Andraste and let her take the planet? What can she really do that’s worse than the evil mankind has already inflicted upon itself?
Impatient feet shuffled on the cold flagstones. Questioning looks burned through the eyeholes of the masks.
The girl muttered something inaudible. It might have been another plea to her mother. The Selected always did that. Always the mother: no matter how old the victim was, even if the mother of the offering had herself been in her grave for years, it was always the mother that would be screamed for.
He was assured that he would learn, eventually, to shut his ears to the screams and the pleas. That was what Franklin had told him, anyway. David Searles was as far from believing as he ever was.
She raised her battered face from the floor. At the sight of the knives she opened her mouth. Her scream was barely human.
Searles closed his eyes. God, if this was what she sounded like now, what noises would she utter when the pain began? A sudden thought: turn the knife on himself. A swift strike to the heart. Absolve himself of responsibility.
No, it wouldn’t work that way. Andraste would be waiting for him on the other side. Besides, the task would be completed by the remaining council members. A new Master would be hurriedly elected and the ritual would continue. He was just a figurehead - important to the ritual, but not indispensable.
He bent down and extended his knife arm. He wanted so badly to ask God to forgive him for what he was about to do but he knew it would be a useless plea. God wasn’t listening anymore. The exchanges in the chapel with the carved figure of Christ proved that. All he could do was complete the ritual, and hope that Andraste would have mercy on him.
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