Gravelight

by Marion Zimmer Bradley

  A year and a half ago Wycherly's sister had come to Truth for help, and last December Truth had attended Winter's wedding, though none of Winter's own family had. Though Winter had never spoken much about them. Truth had drawn a picture of New York old money and formidable rectitude. It was hard to think of any of the Musgrave family being tangled up in sorcery, even though psychic power tended to run in families. Wycherly, however, bore such a strong resemblance to his older sister that Truth thought she would have guessed the truth eventually.

  Here in the cool elegance Sinah had created, Wycherly's bloody and tattered appearance was even more disconcerting than it had been at the old Dellon cabin.

  "One of you has it," he continued. "Which of you is it?"

  He must mean Les Cultes. Truth twitched in guilt and felt Sinah's eyes flick to her.

  "I don't know what you're talking about," Sinah said smoothly, getting to her feet. "But you certainly do seem to have a knack for getting yourself into scrapes, darling! Are you sure you've got any fingers left under that towel? Come over here and let me—"

  Wycherly waved her back with his damaged hand; Sinah stopped as if he'd actually struck her.

  "I suppose she's been telling you all kinds of lies about me," he said, gesturing at Truth. "Or has she just come here to make converts?"

  "I've always known who you were, Wych," Sinah said, not pretending to misunderstand. "It doesn't matter to me one way or the other." She laughed, a little jaggedly. "If you only knew! But come in; forget about the book. You don't know what this means to me—Truth can help us—"

  "Yes," Wycherly drawled with deadly sarcasm. "She helped my sister just fine—right into a nervous breakdown, although I'm sure that's not the way she tells it."

  He lunged forward as Sinah retreated, and seized Truth's purse from the couch beside her. Truth barely had time to cry out in protest before he'd upended it and spilled its contents on the rug. He reached for the newspaper-wrapped bundle and missed—Truth swiped it from beneath his fingertips.

  "I'll keep that, thank you very much!" Truth said briskly. "It's stolen from the Taghkanic Library anyway, and it's nothing for someone like you to be playing with."

  "Playing?" Wycherly seemed honestly stunned. "Do you think I've been playing, you jumped-up yuppie bimbo? Give me the Goddamned book!"

  And "damned" is just the word for it, Truth agreed silently. She took a step backward. Wycherly kicked savagely at the litter on the floor, but made no further move toward the book.

  "Wycherly, please—" Sinah tried moving toward him again. "Your poor hand—"

  "And you," Wycherly said, turning toward Sinah. His pale eyes seemed to burn with a wolfish intensity. "I should have known that you were too good to be true. How long have you known who I was—did you think you could get yourself knocked up and force my mother to let me marry you? I've got news for you, sister; the Musgraves are a little more progressive than that—"

  "Wycherly!" Sinah's face was a study in shock—and in bewilderment—though since she was a telepath. Truth thought, surely Sinah had known from the moment she first read his mind that Wycherly was from a wealthy family, with the peculiar paranoia that engendered. "I didn't want your baby for that. ..." she began.

  As if she only heard her own words as she spoke them, Sinah stopped, an expression of confused horror on her face.

  "Fine." Wycherly stood in the middle of the living room, cheeks flushed and breathing hard. Truth wondered if he'd heard or really understood anything Sinah'd said. "If you've got one, keep it. It doesn't matter now. Luned's gone, don't you see? After what I've done—"

  "No!" Sinah burst out. "You never hurt anyone, Wych—I know it." She reached him and clung to his arm as if she could drag him back to the light of reason by physical strength alone.

  "And what makes you think you know me so well?" Wycherly asked, with a baleful glare at Truth. "Or have you been checking up on the sainted Musgrave dynasty?"

  "I can read minds, Wycherly," Sinah burst out with desperate honesty. "I can—"

  He pushed her away from him, though not as hard as another man might have. "You must think I'll believe anything, don't you? You've been in Tinseltown too long, lady—I'm a drunkard, not stupid. But I see that you have company, my dear—" he added with deadly, exaggerated courtesy, "—so I'll take myself off. Don't bother to show me out—I can find my own way."

  He turned away and left. His bandaged hand left a dark smear where he brushed it against the door frame. He did not shut the door behind him.

  "No—wait," Sinah would have run after him, but Truth caught her back.

  "You can't reason with him now, Sinah. Give him some time to cool down," Truth suggested. "He'll be more reasonable later."

  Just as Dylan had been? Who was Truth to counsel Sinah when she couldn't even manage her own relationships?

  But with ruthless analysis. Truth had to conclude that Wycherly wasn't a problem anymore—not the way Sinah was, at least. Without the book, Wycherly probably wouldn't be tempted to dabble further—and since he was male and not of the bloodline, it was unlikely that he could sense the Wildwood Gate, and impossible that he could manipulate it.

  "Oh, why did you take his book away from him?" Sinah wailed, snatching the wrapped parcel from Truth's hands.

  "Take a look and see. It's pretty raw stuff, though, I warn you—"

  Sinah unwrapped Truth's hasty parcel. The newspaper stuck where the blood had dried on the cover; Sinah handled it with wary distaste.

  "But—this is . . ." Sinah said. She flipped through it without inter-

  est, and wrapped it up again. "A few years ago I was dating another actor; he was into all this stuff, and tried to get me interested, but I wasn't, very. This was fitted into one of the books I borrowed by mistake; I wanted to return it to him but by then he'd moved, and I never quite knew what to do with it. But how did Wycherly get it? He's welcome to it, at any rate."

  "It's still Taghkanic property," Truth said firmly, reaching for the gri-moire. "And I'm going to see to it that it gets back there. If Wycherly wants to be a Black Magician, there are many safer books for him to play with."

  "Oh," Sinah said automatically, "surely you don't believe in all that occult nonsense?" She put her hand up to her hair, smoothing it back in an unconscious attempt to banish the recent turmoil.

  ''Occult nonsense" she calls it — and yet she's willing to believe that she's possessed by her ancestors and has to make human sacrifices to a sidhe Gate. . . . Truth thought resignedly.

  "I believe that the human mind is a very powerful tool, able to gather, focus, and direct forces that humanity, as yet, doesn't understand very well," Truth said firmly. "I believe that for years investigation of those powers was mired in superstition and religious bigotry, with the result that the so-called Occult Sciences have almost no point of communication with conventional science. But that's changing—even hospitals are experimenting with something called Therapeutic Touch, and what is that but the traditional ability to heal by the laying on of hands that religion has always claimed for itself?

  "So I think it can be foolish to dismiss out of hand all magic as simple mumbo jumbo, and harmful, even dangerous, to dabble in it as if it could have no effect," Truth finished, a little sheepish at her own speech-making.

  "My." Sinah held the book out to Truth.

  Truth took it and stuffed it into her bag, kneeling on the floor to pick up the rest of her purse's contents.

  "Sorry to preach, but you pushed one of my hot-buttons," she said. "This is my field, after all."

  "You're a . . . what was it?" Sinah shook her head, as though trying to hear a very faint sound.

  "I'm a statistical parapsychologist, which is a very boring, dry, and office-bound profession. If you want glamour and excitement, talk to Dylan—he's the one who hunts ghosts."

  "That would be your partner?" Sinah said, trying to pull the rags of normalcy about herself. Her hands and her voice both shook, and her face was stil
l white with shock at Wycherly's outburst.

  "We're here together, yes. I told you Mortons Fork was a focus for paranormal activities—it's because of the Gate; your Wellspring."

  "And if I close it, you say all my troubles will be over?" Sinah said edgily. She smoothed the front of her skirt compulsively, as though she couldn't stop.

  "The ones involving drownings, unexplained disappearances, and human sacrifice," Truth answered bluntly. "Sinah, what you said earlier, about needing a child. . . . was it to give to the Wellspring? Are you pregnant?" Truth asked gently.

  "Yes—no—I don't know! Oh, it doesn't matter now!" Sinah burst out. She began to cry in high wailing sobs, as though ridden by a shattering grief that would kill her.

  Truth stayed with Sinah as long as she could, hoping to soothe her shattered emotions. Sinah had to be calm if her attempt to close the Wild-wood Gate were to work. And in any event, the attempt would not be one they'd be making today. It was already late afternoon, and Truth did not want to be up at the Gate in the dark, with Sinah in an already weakened condition. It had been hard enough for Truth to close her own Gate, and that had been with Thorne Blackburn's help. She only hoped she could be as much help to Sinah when the time came.

  "I'll be fine, really," Sinah said unconvincingly almost two hours later. The cubes in her tall glass of iced tea tinkled faintly with the constant nervous trembling of her hands.

  "Are you sure?" Truth said dubiously.

  "Of course. Look, this is my own house—I paid for the bed, I might as well lie in it. I'll see you first thing tomorrow, okay?"

  "If you're sure ..." There was no way Truth could call Sinah a liar without losing all the ground she'd gained here this afternoon.

  "So it's settled," Sinah said, in a bright tone that did not quite mask the weariness underneath. "You'll be back here first thing tomorrow morning, and we'll storm the castle of the Wicked Witch of the West together."

  And with that, all that was left for Truth to do was reluctantly to say her goodbyes and start back down the mountain.

  * * *

  Truth knew that she ought to stop to talk to Wycherly and see if there was anything she could do to help to repair the breach between him and Sinah, but when she passed the cabin again in the twilight, it was deserted and empty, and she really needed to get back to Dylan before he decided she'd broken her parole.

  The flare of resentment that accompanied this practicality was something she'd learned to live with. She'd have her revenge, she promised herself, but not just yet. And Wycherly would have to wait, too.

  Truth wondered what quirk of fortune had brought him to this forsaken place, and why he seemed to be so angry with the world. But whatever Wycherly's riddles were, she couldn't solve them tonight—and once the Gate was sealed, there would be time enough to look to all the rest.

  "Where's Truth?" she heard an undistinguishable voice ask as she reached the door of the camper. The lights were on inside the camper; through the shaded windows. Truth could see the other three moving around inside.

  "The Truth is out there!" Rowan sang back merrily, and Truth felt an instant burst of irritation—though what cause had she ever given Rowan Moorcock to think well of her?

  / really hate to break this up . . . but not very much. Truth pushed open the door of the Winnebago and climbed in.

  As night had fallen the weather had turned cold, wet, and overcast, and as she opened the door, the savory smell of pizza made Truth's mouth water. It looked as though Dylan had used her car to patronize one of Pharaoh's local fast-food establishments—Truth had rented it when she'd begun her research two weeks ago, since she could hardly use the camper to drive around in. She'd left the keys with Dylan this morning, knowing she would not need it today.

  "Sorry I'm late," Truth said brightly. "But not too late?"

  "No," Dylan said, and, spitefully, Truth didn't see welcome in his face—only relief that she hadn't humiliated him further. At that moment he was only an obstacle to her plans, and she hated him for it with a perfect passion of mind.

  No. In the name of Time and the Seasons, what am I becoming? Truth drew a deep breath, and only then remembered the purse slung carelessly over

  her shoulder, with the copy of Les Cultes at the bottom of it. That was something that needed to be brought up soon.

  And it's something even Dylan can understand — for a change. . . .

  She set her purse on the counter beside the door and slid into the dinette beside Ninian. Rowan got up to get more soda out of the refrigerator, her silence more eloquent than any comment.

  Did Rowan fancy herself in love with Dylan? Instant, hot jealously seized Truth—what was hers, she would keep, whether she wanted it or not.

  Oh, stop it! Truth helped herself to a slice of pizza. But it would be kinder to let Dylan go to the younger woman, a part of her said soberly. Kinder to leave him to his own kind.

  But I love him! Truth protested. Don't I?

  And even if I don't, he's mine, he's mine, he's mine. . . .

  "So how did it go today?" Truth said aloud, biting into a slice of pizza.

  "We didn't get much done—there's a girl missing—Evan's sister; he runs the general store. Apparently she didn't come home last night," Dylan said.

  "I know. Apparently a lot of people have been looking for her: no luck," Truth said, trying to gain control of her unruly emotions. Control was the first work of the Adept, and Irene had set her to it over two years ago. Slowly she felt calm radiate through her body from her Tiphareth chakra.

  "Did you find any Dellons?" Rowan said. Her expression held interest in news of a mystery, nothing more. "I think it's just bizarre the way everyone keeps saying they don't exist—I was asking about them when I was asking permission to set up the monitors—you know, asking about the local witch-woman and cunning man, that sort of thing."

  As Truth had learned during her own researches, folk beliefs were still a large part of mountain culture, though no one took them as seriously these days as their grandparents had. Modern mountain folk were quite capable of seeing a doctor in a nearby city and then returning home to consult with the local yarb-and-fetch woman, who was often as useful as the doctor, if not more so, in the treatment of everyday complaints.

  Struggling hard. Truth strove to match Rowan's light tone.

  "I found not only the cabin, but an actual Dellon. She's a local product—born here in 1969—but she was fostered out and raised in

  Gaithersburg. She's an actress working in Hollywood, or so I gather, but she came back to Morton's Fork to try to find something about her past," Truth said.

  She felt Dylan's eyes shift to her with strange intentness, then flick aside to Rowan, but whatever he might have intended to say, he was not fast enough to prevent Rowan's next words.

  "And will she agree to come in for testing?" Rowan asked eagerly. "Did you get to take a case history?"

  So he'd told them. Truth tried not to feel hurt—he'd had to tell them something, after all, and with the noise level of the argument she and Dylan'd had his students had probably overheard most of it. Still, Truth wondered how much more he'd told them—and about what.

  "I doubt she could do all that on a first meeting," Dylan said pacifically. "I mentioned you were trying to track down the family that had owned the land the sanatorium was built on to see if there was some history there, since a lot of our apparition reports are concentrated in that area."

  Oh, yes. There's a history there, Truth thought bitterly. Aloud she said, "Well, I've met her—unfortunately, she's getting the same pariah treatment you do when you ask about the Dellons."

  "Shunned," Dylan said. "More effective than violence in an isolated community, and often just as deadly."

  "They talked to me," Ninian said unexpectedly.

  The other three all turned to stare at him. Ninian ducked his head. His long black hair fell forward, but failed to conceal the blush spreading over his pale skin. He looked very much as if he wish
ed he hadn't said anything.

  "Ninian?" Dylan asked.

  "Before we heard about Luned Starking being gone, I was over at the Scotts' place—you know: cold spot, broken dishes, black dog—" he added, using verbal shorthand to sketch the kind of manifestations every researcher was familiar with. "They were happy to talk; Mrs. Scott's great-aunt was a spirit-caller—you know, a medium—and I told her about my gran, so we got on just fine. Anyway, after a while she went into the house to cook lunch, and I was out on the porch shelling peas with Morwen—"

  "Is there a point to this, Nin?" Rowan asked, twirling her long red braid as if it were a lariat.

  "I'm getting to that! Morwen's about my age; we got talking, and when I brought up the Dellons, she said that the whole reason the rest of the Fork wouldn't talk to them was because they're cannibals—werewolves, in fact. She said her mama'd said that if you did anything a Del-Ion woman didn't like she'd overlook you, drive you out of your skull, maybe turn you into a wolf yourself. She's sure that now a Dellon's shown up again, somebody in the Fork's going to die."

  "And someone has disappeared, right on schedule," Dylan said.

  "On schedule ..." Truth said, a sudden inspiration taking possession of her. "Dylan, where's the master list, the one organized by date?"

  The list was unearthed without too much trouble—it was the one that Truth had run from Dylan's database to try to chart seasonal peaks in local activity.

  "Here. Look. The disappearances peak in mid-August on some kind of multi-year cycle. And Tm almost sure—" Truth jumped up again, this time for her purse, digging through it until she found her notebook.

  "Yes—I was right. Most of the Dellon women have vanished within a few days either way of the fourteenth of August: the last one—two, actually—twenty-eight years ago in 1969. But why then? Lammas is the only Great Festival anywhere near here, and that's August first."

  "It didn't used to be," Dylan said slowly, "or, rather, August first didn't used to be. In Pope Gregory's 1582 calendar reform, fourteen days were removed from the calendar in the conversion from the Julian to the Gregorian calendar. There were riots all over Europe, with crowds demanding 'give us back our fourteen days.' Researchers of that period still have to be careful to indicate whether they're citing New Style or Old Style dates, since both were in use for quite some time after that."