Gravelight

by Marion Zimmer Bradley

  "You did what?" Dylan demanded.

  Luned Starking had not been found, and by now everyone assumed the worst. Caleb Starking, Luned's father, had even—though with reluctance—filed a missing persons report with the sheriffs department, and tomorrow most of the area between the general store and Watchman's Gap would be searched with dogs.

  With everyone so discouraged. Truth's suggestion of dinner in Pharaoh had been a welcome break from the tension of the last two days. The researchers had managed to find a nice restaurant—nice for Lyonesse County, anyway—and have a civilized, sit-down dinner in a setting a little more spacious than the camper's kitchenette. It was even air-conditioned, which, after three weeks in Morton's Fork, seemed like the height of luxury. Rowan and Ninian had rushed through their dinners and gone off to see what other delights Pharaoh might provide, leaving Truth and Dylan alone. Truth had been relieved; she'd thought it would be nice to have a little more privacy than usual when she brought up the subject of additional magickal activity up at the sanatorium.

  '1 called a friend of mine to see if he'd be willing to come and cast out the doppelganger of Quentin Blackburn from the Church of the Antique Rite," Truth repeated.

  "Of all the—" Dylan said. He stopped speaking suddenly, but Truth could see the dark flush of anger across his cheeks.

  "Dylan!" Truth said. "You saw yourself what was up there—you said yourself it was haunted."

  "I said it was haunted," Dylan agreed shortly. "If it's haunted, that means we study it," he added, as if he were speaking to a very simple-minded child. "We don't blot it out of existence."

  But what about the Gate? Truth had known she was overstepping the bounds of Dylan's fragile tolerance when she'd made her call to Michael, but not by how much.

  Truth had thought he'd be more sympathetic after this morning— even if he hadn't experienced what she and Sinah had, he'd seemed to believe what they'd told him about it afterward. But how much did Dylan really believe, and how much of his true opinions were masked by the

  professional courtesy of the researcher who does not wish to alienate his test subjects?

  A test subject. . . is that what I am to him?

  "That temple is too dangerous to just leave as it is," Truth said. "Please, Dylan—I don't want to see you hurt."

  "You've stepped way over the line on this one. Truth," Dylan said, and now his voice held an uneasy mixture of sorrow and regret. "I agree with you that there's something nasty in the wood pile up at Wildwood, and The Church of the Antique Rite is nothing you want to mess around with. But the site, the congregation, and Quentin Blackburn all burned in 1917, and ghosts don't kill. The locals avoid the site—"

  "Then what about Luned Starking? Where is she?" Truth demanded.

  She kept her voice down with an effort, not wanting to disturb the other diners. The Lyonesse Pantry was a simple, plain, mom-and-pop establishment that would certainly not thank them for causing a flashy scene.

  "Maybe she and Wycherly Musgrave eloped together," Dylan suggested briefly. "That is not the point. The point is that Morton's Fork is my research project, and you're riding your hobbyhorse right through the middle of it. How dare you make a decision like this without consulting me—especially after how you slapped me down this morning?"

  So he was still sulking about that, was he? / do it because I have to. It's my job. The realization that this was no more than the truth—and that Dylan could not be expected to accept it—grieved her. It had not seemed like such a momentous decision when she'd first made it, but day by day, hour by hour. Truth's decision to follow her father's path was separating her from the realities of mundane existence.

  And from those she loved.

  "I'm sorry, Dylan," Truth said evenly, though her heart wept. "I feel that the place as it stands is more of a danger than you seem to think— to Sinah, certainly, since whatever's up there has a personal interest in her—and also to Wycherly, if he's gotten tangled up with The Church of the Antique Rite as he seems to have. You know that impressions linger in a place—you've told me that's what a lot of hauntings are, just the playback by a susceptible mind of recorded images—and I think Wycherly's unstable. I think that place could reinforce unstable elements in his own personality."

  "Do you think he's killed Luned?" Dylan said. His voice was still hard with anger; he had not forgiven her.

  "I know that Sinah doesn't think so," Truth said slowly, thinking back to that last scene at Sinah's house. "I . . . don't know. Luned wasn't at Wycherly's when I stopped there yesterday, and he said he'd gone out searching for her. He didn't, , , feel ... as if he'd killed someone recently," she added.

  If Wycherly had killed Luned, traces of her life force—her purely animal part, not her soul—would still have been clinging to him hours later, perceptible to anyone with Astral Sight. But the Astral Sight began first and foremost with the willingness to see, and without that Dylan had no way to experience any of the things Truth spoke to him of. She began to wonder—as she had so many times over the last weeks—how much of what she'd told Dylan about her Overworld experiences he believed, and how much he had only refrained from openly disputing.

  "Well, that's reassuring," Dylan said sarcastically. He threw his napkin on the table. "His aura says he didn't kill anybody, so it has to be a Gate that nobody can find but you. I guess dinner's over. Let's go find the kids."

  Why are you being so unreasonable? Yes, maybe I should have talked this over with you first — but then you should have said yes, you know you should; we both know that uncontrolled psychic loci are dangerous. . . . Is it because you're as afraid as I am — and not of this? Dylan . . .

  Before she could speak, Dylan got to his feet, summoning the waiter. As the waiter left with Dylan's charge card and the check, he turned back to Truth.

  "Did your exorcist give you any idea of when he was going to show up?"

  "The day after tomorrow," Truth said crisply. "He'll be flying into Bridgeport and driving out the morning of the fourteenth." August 14th. Lammas, Old Style, and the Wildwood Gate must be fed with the blood of the Gatekeepers. . . . "Lll be staying at Sinah's tonight, in case she has any more problems."

  "I see," Dylan said.

  The charge-slip was brought and he signed it, then gestured for Truth to precede him from the restaurant.

  Wycherly stood beside Sinah's Jeep Cherokee, looking across the street to a little botte de nuit calling itself the Lyonesse Pantry. Kitchen smells of

  roasting and baking hung on the hot night air that molded Wycherly's shirt against his skin.

  Through the large lighted open windows, he could see fake oak panelling, scattered square tables draped in tired white linen, the worn red carpet and the straight-backed wooden chairs. There were plastic flowers on the tables, and votive candles in tall soot-smeared chimneys, making this easily the most upscale eatery within sixty-five miles.

  The thought brought a sneering smile to his face. This was how the other half lived—fat contented sheep, slumbering their way toward Armageddon.

  He wasn't one of them. Not him. He'd seen Hell already.

  His right hand throbbed, awkward in the light rigid cast that was supposed to keep him from tearing the forty-eight stitches taken in his palm and wrist. It had taken him most of a day to make up his mind to go to a doctor—but even after he'd rebandaged the wound with supplies bought from the Walgreen's in Pharaoh, it had throbbed sullenly, and the thought of infection had frightened him. Finally he'd driven all the way to Elkins and gone to an emergency room, suitably fortified for the drive by several beers and a fifth of Scotch.

  As long as he could reach for a bottle, it kept him from reaching for a knife.

  It was a good thing he'd held onto his AmEx, because it had cost him over four hundred dollars to get his hand cleaned and sewn up, and himself inoculated with antibiotics against infection. The intern had scolded him for letting his injury go untreated for so long before bringing it in, but Wycherly hadn't liste
ned. He'd had other things to do, but first he'd needed to find a hotel room, and a bank.

  He'd found the room, though the bank would have to wait until tomorrow. He'd thought he might like food, but gazing at the trite domestic scene made him realize that he wouldn't. There was a bottle back in his room—and, frankly, whether his stomach or his liver or anything else would hold out much longer was finally a non-issue. He'd come to these hills to find out the truth, and he'd found it—or enough of it. The subtleties of good might be beyond his reach, but his unruly stubbornness rebelled from being anyone's—any thing's —helpful servant.

  For a while he'd thought that loving Sinah might save him, but she was just like all the rest—she saw the money and the family name and

  nothing more. Why else would she have indulged him so much with her body and her attentions?

  And if that wasn't the way things really were, he didn't have time to find out what the truth was. Wycherly had things to do—the things he could do best: ruining people's plans, disappointing those who depended on him, failing those who trusted him, and breaking things. He was weak, he was useless—everyone had always said so. And if he'd discovered anything in the last few weeks, it was that he didn't want to be of use to anyone.

  He was weak. Now someone would discover just how dangerous a weak man could be.

  "Happy birthday," Wycherly sang tonelessly under his breath. "Happy birthday to me. . . ."

  The long drive back to Morton's Fork was unnaturally quiet, with everyone in the car afraid of saying the wrong thing; apparently Rowan and Ninian had argued as well, for they stared fixedly out of opposite windows and didn't even try to break the silence.

  The car passed through the main street of Morton's Fork—closed and dark at nine o'clock—and past the pale bulk of the camper; a modern American luxury abandoned in a place that was anything but. Dylan swept the sedan up Watchman's Gap Trace toward Sinah's house without even asking Rowan and Ninian if they wanted to be dropped off first.

  Sinah's house was a beacon. Every light in the place was on, and inside. Truth could see Sinah moving around. The stained glass windows gave the house the look of a Christmas tree ornament as they pulled up out front. The Jeep Cherokee was still missing, and Truth knew that she had to ask Sinah where Wycherly had gone; now the stakes were too high for her to just let something like that slide.

  "Thanks for a lovely evening," Truth said when the car stopped, struggling to keep the sarcasm out of her voice. As she opened the car door and stepped out, she realized that she'd meant to stop at the camper for her toiletries and a change of clothes. Well, maybe Sinah could loan her something.

  "Goodnight, Truth," Ninian said, and Rowan waved. She saw Dylan take his hand off the wheel to rub his eyes, and knew he felt as tired and frustrated as she did. She waved—to the students—and turned away,

  reaching in her purse for Sinah's keys. Behind her she heard the sound of the car backing down into the road.

  Sinah had dressed and made herself up carefully, but the makeup stood out chalky and clownlike on her pale, pointed face. She tried to smile at Truth, but she could not hold the expression. It came and went, flickering across her face.

  "Everything okay.^" Truth asked.

  "If you mean, 'am I still here and haven't had any nightmares on-or-off Elm Street,' yes. But what comes now? I know you've called in some kind of specialist witch-doctor, but I can't do what you want, Truth—I can't!"

  Truth had to be careful not to push Sinah too far—she'd already had a glimpse of how ruthless the personality overlay of the bloodline could be in reacting to a threat. She thought that danger would end when the Gate was closed, cutting Sinah off from its power and from those archived memories. It was an unsettling experience for anyone when the Unseen came looking for them, and for a Gatekeeper, heir to enormous power yet raised without an inkling of its existence . . .

  "Relax, Sinah," Truth soothed. "Nobody's asking you to do anything tonight, and I'm sure we can deal with anything that might turn up tomorrow. Do you think you can sleep now? Or shall I turn my skills to beating you at poker?"

  Again the on-off flicker of a smile from Sinah. "Wycherly—" she stopped and grimaced. "Wycherly was giving me his sleeping pills— Seconal—he had a prescription for them."

  "Borrowing prescriptions isn't a good idea," Truth said automatically. But the barbiturate would interrupt Sinah's Stage Three sleep—the dreaming stage—which should protect her from nightmares—or worse. "Is the prescription still here?" she asked reluctantly.

  Sinah went into the kitchen to see. Truth knew that some of the younger woman's oddly docile behavior came from shock—Truth had hit her with a lot over the last twenty-four hours, and she'd been under a tremendous strain for a long time before that. It was no wonder that when someone with a decisive personality crossed her path—and Truth felt that decisive was a reasonable description of someone who had also been called "meddlmg," "bossy," and "managing"—Sinah was willing to obey her in an almost childlike fashion.

  "Here they are." Sinah came back from the bathroom carrying a brown-and-white bottle. "They were in his shaving kit. He just left everything."

  "Did he take your Jeep?" Truth asked, and Sinah nodded reluctantly.

  "The day you first came up here. Later that night."

  "Have you seen him since then?" Truth asked. "I went by his cabin tonight on my way back to town, but it didn't look as if he'd been back there."

  Sinah shook her head. "He . . . he'll be back when he gets ready," she said, her voice shaking with the effort it took for the words to seem casual. Truth didn't have the heart to press her further.

  Seconal was a pretty strong narcotic, but one night's use—or two, or three—shouldn't kill or addict Sinah, and if a pill could make the difference between dreamless sleep and a night spent tormented by jangled nerves . . .

  "Why don't you go ahead and take one?" Truth suggested. "Whether you get much rest or not, it'll put you out for eight hours."

  "That's what Wycherly said," Sinah said, sounding more adult now. She took the bottle into the kitchen to get a glass of water.

  Truth watched her go, wondering if it was Sinah she'd been talking to, or . . . something else. Truth only had experience of the negative aspects of the Gates, but somewhere in the tangled web of Sinah's inherited memories must be the remembrance of a time when the Gate's guardian wielded its power consciously, for hele and ill. The Gates were supposed to control the Earth's fruitfulness—And if Sinah could control such power, what else could she do?

  Truth thought back to the sterile, blighted area surrounding the burned sanatorium and felt a vague disquiet. Despite what Thorne had once believed, the worlds of gods and men were not meant to be merged, and average people could get into enough trouble here in the World of Form without adding in divine or supernatural abilities.

  "Well, goodnight," Sinah said, coming back from the kitchen. "I'll go on up to bed now. Are you sure you have everything you need? The loveseats both fold out—there are sheets in the linen closet—or you could just bunk in with me. It's a California King, so heaven knows there's room enough, and I plan to be dead to the world."

  She heard what she'd said, and winced. "Unfortunate choice. Let's say, 'sleeping soundly,' okay?"

  "Goodnight, Sinah. I'm sure I'll be fine," Truth said.

  And no matter how primitive the accommodations, they'd be better than lying beside Dylan in the camper, feigning sleep and wondering if he were doing the same thing.

  Perhaps it was the stresses of the day or just being in an unfamiliar place, but Truth didn't feel the least inclination to sleep. She read—Sinah had a jackdaw-eclectic collection of books, including Truth's biography of Thorne Blackburn—and eventually she admitted that she didn't intend to go to bed at all.

  What am I waiting for? she asked herself.

  She was hardly expecting another magickal assault—the effects of the tainted Gate seemed to be place-bound, and she'd had little indication th
at Quentin Blackburn was likely to seek them out. But just in case. Truth went around the house once more, blessing and sealing the place at every door and window with the star-in-circle that the followers of her tradition saw as a symbol of Man in the midst of the natural world. When she was done she looked in on Sinah, who was sleeping peacefully. The younger woman had fallen asleep with the bedside light on, an open book in her hand. Smiling to herself, Truth turned out the light and closed the book.

  But snug below again with a cup of coffee and a book. Truth had to admit that she felt no more settled than before, even though she was absolutely certain that no malignant forces could enter here.

  But just because she and Sinah were safe, did that mean she could say the same for the other residents of Morton's Fork? Today was the i ith of August—the 12th, rather, since it was after midnight—and August 14th was the peak date for the disappearances in Morton's Fork.

  Truth wasn't sure what had happened to Luned Starking—though she suspected that Sinah was right, and the girl had gone to the Gate—but she did know that Morton's Fork was the sort of place from which people tended to . . . disappear—through the Gate, or otherwise.

  And there's nothing you can do about it, Truth told herself firmly. The Wildwood Gate was not hers to control, and she could hardly mount a one-woman foot patrol of the area to discourage trespassers.

  But on sober reflection, there was one thing she could ^o.

  Listening very carefully for sounds that would mean Sinah was awakening, Truth opened the front door and stepped outside. The heat and

  humidity of the August night made it feel as if she were stepping into veils of wet silk. Truth's blouse and slacks immediately wilted and began to cling.

  The air was electric—there would certainly be a storm here within a day or so, a week at the most.

  Why not now? Weather was the first magick, easiest to control: fire and storm, wind and wave, the deep heartbeat of the dreaming earth. . . .

  She felt the power begin to gather in a tingle at the base of her skull, in the location of the oldest part of the brain. It spread, sketching the pathways of the nerves, until Truth had become a vast creature of light and energy, a creature so ethereal that the very air was solid enough to touch. With wings of energy borrowed from the veils of Earth Herself Truth reached out, touched high-riding clouds, created voids in the sky to harry them on. . . .