Gravelight

by Marion Zimmer Bradley

  And what about Rowan? Had he been over-hasty in sending her back to the car? She might simply have pulled the penknife out of her pocket to make it easier to find the aspirin. But when he thought of her sketchbook Dylan shuddered inwardly. No, Rowan had definitely been under some sort of influence from whatever inhabited this place. They'd better all be on their guard—even him.

  Ninian had been using a tape measure and a level, determining the exact dimensions of the room and searching out any concealed gradients. Now he leaned back against the Black Altar, rubbing his eyes.

  "Nin?" Dylan said.

  "I'm . . . okay," Ninian said. "It's just ... I feel so cold."

  Dylan glanced at Truth, and a moment of perfect sympathy and agreement passed between them. "Time to go," Truth said, smiling faintly. She began bundling Dylan's equipment—including the ruined lamp— back into the knapsacks.

  "Come on, Ninian," Dylan said, clapping the younger man on the back. "Time to go. Can you manage one of the packs?"

  "Sure," Ninian said. "I just . . . this place gives me the creeps."

  Dylan glanced at Truth.

  "Not me," she said. "Nothing that should constitute a danger, anyway. But I'm not psychic, I'll remind you, and Ninian is. Besides, I'm shielded. Here's your hat, what's your hurry, as the saying goes," she added, passing the packed knapsack to Ninian.

  Shrugging it onto one shoulder, Ninian started up the steps. Dylan turned back to Truth.

  "You don't feel anything . . . special about this place?" he asked, part of him morbidly curious to see what she said.

  Truth had been about to reach for the portable seismograph; she turned back to him, and Dylan could sense her weighing how frank to be with him. How could they have drifted this far apart? Once he would have said he was her closest confidant in the world.

  "No," Truth finally said. "The Gate is here, of course; I can feel that. But I'm not all that likely to notice anything else, unless I'm on the Astral and the source is, too; that's the difference between a magician and a psychic. I'd offer to look around for you, but after the way this place took down both your psychics, I'd say you don't need any more evidence that there's something here." She turned back to the seismograph.

  As neat an evasion as Vve heard lately, Dylan thought unhappily, carefully fitting the plumber's level into his rucksack and swinging it onto his back. Truth backed up to the backpack balanced on the altar and stooped to bring her arms level with the shoulder straps, shrugging them into position and then standing to take the weight.

  "Let's go, then, and . . . thanks for stopping by. I guess you may be right about giving this place a good solid banishing," Dylan said reluctantly.

  Truth smiled slightly; it encouraged him to continue.

  "Oh, and by the way, do you happen to know where that fissure over there goes?" Dylan asked casually. "It's too bad there's no way of telling whether it was a part of the ritual space that was used when The Church of the Antique Rite was down here."

  Now Truth stared at him as if he'd lost his mind.

  "The Gate itself is down there. Sinah's Wellspring. If you go down there, you'll die. Would you like to test that theory, Dylan?"

  The climb back to the surface passed in silence. Truth was surprised to see that it was still morning. She glanced at her watch. It was almost nine A.M. on a bright, beautiful August morning, but when she'd been down there in that sub-basement, it could have been any hour, or none. The sooner they shut the place down—Gate and blasphemous Church both— Truth told herself, the better.

  Dylan climbed up past her and headed for the drive, his face closed. They reached the car without incident; Rowan and Ninian were both standing beside it, their expressions saying plainly that they could not understand why they'd been sent away from where the action was.

  But they went, which is more than Vve ever done, Truth acknowledged ruefully.

  Aloud she said: "Could you drop me back at Sinah's place, Dylan? I really need to get back there." Mayhe she'll still he asleep.

  "Okay," Dylan said, "but don't you think you might be carrying this protection thing a little too far? I mean—"

  The guilt she felt at leaving Sinah as she slept made Truth speak more sharply than she'd intended.

  "You can still say that, after this? I promised to protect her, Dylan."

  She watched his expression relapse into stubborn unhappiness—so much for their fragile truce!—and when Dylan turned away toward the car. Truth couldn't think of anything to say. It was true that there was probably little real danger to Sinah just now—but she'd given her word. Why was Dylan deliberately provoking her?

  Unless he felt as trapped as she did.

  A short time later the car pulled up in front of Sinah's house.

  "See you folks later?" Truth said hopefully.

  "Maybe," Dylan said. "It depends."

  But he didn't tell her what it depended on, and she stood on the steps forlornly watching the car drive away. When it was out of sight, she went inside.

  She closed the door and stood very still, listening. All quiet. She went upstairs. Sinah was just beginning to stir, and Truth pounced on her own written note and crumpled it.

  "Good morning," Sinah said sleepily, then: "You're already dressed."

  "I never got undressed," Truth said. "How did you sleep?"

  "I don't remember," Sinah said, but her eyes didn't meet Truth's. "Well, what shall we do today?" She stretched.

  Oh, I don't know . . . go hack up to the Gate so you can push me in? Truth warned herself that she must never forget that Sinah could be as much of a danger to her as anything else in Morton's Fork. At any moment she might decide, with the simple necessity that had ruled the Dellon women for generations, that Truth was a threat ... or a suitable sacrifice.

  And just try explaining that to Dylan! Truth sighed. She was going to have to try to do a lot of explaining to Dylan . . . and soon.

  Explain why I can't marry him. Explain why love isn't enough. Explain that I have . . . things to do with my life that he doesn't want to even be a part of. Explain that I don't want him to meet me halfway —/ want his complete surrender.

  "It's up to you," Truth said. "Michael should be here tomorrow to sweep Quentin Blackburn out of our lives, and then you and I can take on the Gate again."

  "Tomorrow's the fourteenth," Sinah said, and shivered. "It's my birthday."

  "Then we ought to celebrate it," Truth said firmly. "Tell you what:

  why don't you get dressed, and we can go down to the general store and

  pick up my car. Maybe Dylan will give us breakfast." Maybe Hell will

  freeze solid.

  "Are you sure?" Sinah said hesitantly. "I don't want to—"

  "Dylan's a nice guy." To everyone hut me. "I'm sure he'd love to see you.

  You can't spend the rest of your life barricaded in here—luxurious as it is." "All right." Sinah tried a smile, and then swung her legs over the edge

  of the bed. "And I can extend a rather belated invitation for all of you to

  make full use of the facilities here. I lived in a camper like that once—the

  water pressure is not what I would call four-star!"

  She couldn't go on working at the Institute. Truth dawdled over a morning cup of coffee in Sinah's dining room, listening to the sound of her hostess in the shower. The discovery was a bitter one, and Truth resented it. For one thing, how would she earn her living if she quit her job?

  It was true that Thorne Blackburn had left a sizeable estate—and it had increased through the years, with the royalties from his books—but his fortune was mired in litigation. And it might never benefit her anyway—Truth's parents had not been married, and it might be devilishly hard to prove what everyone knew—that she was Thorne Blackburn's daughter.

  But her future course was clear, and after this morning with Dylan, Truth knew she could no longer put off making her decision explicit. Since the day she had discovered her heritage. Truth had been p
ulled in this direction, and she didn't see how she could combine a life of freelance occult do-gooding with her work at the Institute. Being a do-gooder took too much time, for one thing, and the hours were terribly irregular.

  But if it's what I need to be doing, VII find some way of managing it, Truth assured herself. At least she wouldn't need to relocate; as Dylan had told her many times, she could find trouble wherever she went.

  Dylan. Telling him that she'd decided to quit her job and join the Occult Police would probably be the last straw.

  As Truth and Sinah reached the place where the dirt road turned to blacktop, they could see two sheriff's cars and a large van with official markings drawn up near the general store. In front of the building she could see Caleb and Evan Starking talking to a man in a broad-brimmed hat.

  "What's going on?" Sinah asked, coming to a stop. She looked as if she might bolt at any moment.

  "The sheriffs department must be coming out with dogs to see if they can find Luned Starking," Truth said.

  Still Sinah hung back. "Come on," Truth said with a touch of impatience. "There's nothing to be afraid of."

  "I don't . . ." Sinah began. "I thought I could handle it, but it's been such a long time since I've met a bunch of people all at once like this, that I—"

  Of course. She's a telepath. In the onrush of events and the press of her own problems. Truth had nearly forgotten that Sinah had this particular ability.

  "We could go back," Truth suggested, but Dylan had already risen from the table set up in front of the camper and begun walking toward them.

  "How nice to see you again, Ms. Dellon. Can I introduce you to my young colleagues? I know they'll be delighted to have the opportunity to meet an actual movie star," Dylan Palmer said.

  "Rowan Moorcock, Ninian Blake." Each stood as Dylan made the introductions: a tall, strapping-looking young woman with long cinnamon hair; a slender brunet of the sort her foster mother would have categorized as "interesting." They must be the other ghost-hunters that Truth had mentioned.

  Ninian extended a hand. Because it was the expected thing, Sinah grasped it, bracing herself. But there was no way to prepare herself for what occurred. She recoiled, jerking her hand free from Ninian's clasp.

  She was blind. No, not blind exactly—she could still see colors, movements, shapes. But her gift, her ability to hear what others did not say, had vanished at last. She could no longer feel the press of others' emotions—even if she touched them.

  She looked at the others, bewildered. She'd met Dylan only briefly when she could still sense emotions, and the other two she'd never met before at all. She had no idea of what they were thinking, or what they might be like inside. At last she was alone in her mind, alone with only the voices of ancestral ghosts and the consciousness of the Sacred Water Place like the light of a sullen invisible sun.

  "Sinah?" Truth said.

  "Just a twinge," Sinah muttered. "Pleased to meet you, Ninian." She took his hand again and squeezed it firmly.

  The young man smiled uncertainly and sat back down in his chair. Dylan held his own chair for Sinah, who slid gratefully into it, before going to find seats for Truth and himself.

  A lifetime's habit of concealing her difference from other people made Sinah conceal her normalcy now. What could she say? That she could no longer eavesdrop on people and use what she knew to manipulate them like puppets? A fat lot of sympathy that would get her!

  But there are other ways to spellbind a man. Older, surer, and more secret. . . . The internal voice was as compelling, as insistent, as any external voice had ever been. Sinah tried to shut it out, praying that it would not simply rise up and engulf her.

  "Some coffee, Ms. Dellon?" Dylan said.

  "Please," Sinah said. "Call me Sinah. And is there any possibility of tea?" she asked, noticing the tag hanging out of Rowan's cup. "I hate to be a snob, but ..."

  "Tea's better for you anyway," Rowan said promptly. "I'll make it." She bounced to her feet and ran into the camper, letting the screen door slam behind her.

  "How is Rowan feeling?" Truth asked Dylan in formal tones.

  "No lingering effects; not even a headache," Dylan said. "But it's just proof that haunted houses aren't something to be taken lightly."

  "Or haunted un-houses," Truth added, more to herself than to him. She wondered how she could make the time to talk to Dylan privately. Sinah looked as if she'd seen a ghost; Truth wondered what had happened.

  "Something wrong?" Sinah asked.

  "She had a bad spell this morning," Ninian said, grinning faintly at his own pun. He saw Sinah's look of puzzlement and amplified. "We were up at the Wildwood, and, well." He shrugged. "I shouldn't make fun of her. Ro's a medium, and that place is enough to give The Amazing Randi the whim-whams."

  "You were up there?" Sinah said. "At the sanatorium?" Inside her she felt the rest of the bloodline rally together, searching frantically for a way to drive out these interlopers, these outsiders. "You shouldn't go up there. It's dangerous." Her voice roughened.

  "We're taking every precaution," Dylan said soothingly. "And Truth

  has even taken some extra ones on our behalf. I hate to break this to you folks," Dylan said, raising his voice slightly to include Rowan, who was stepping carefully down out of the camper with a mug in one hand and a pastry box in the other, "but the site probably won't be available after tomorrow."

  Well. I guess Dylan thinks the best defense is a good offense.

  "Urban renewal?" Rowan wondered aloud, setting the mug down in front of Sinah. "Milk or sugar? We've got both; I just couldn't carry them all at once."

  "Plain is fine," Sinah said, taking the cup.

  "I called a friend of mine to come and banish the . . . residue ... of The Church of the Antique Rite," Truth said evenly. "So if that's what you're studying, with luck it'll be gone by tomorrow afternoon."

  Rowan looked from Truth to Dylan, her jaw hanging slightly open in shock. It didn't take a telepath to pick up on the young woman's sense of frustrated indignation. "But . . . you just called some faith healer?'' Rowan sputtered.

  "No," Truth said. "Michael is . . . the sort of person who can deal with places like that. You've all been up there. There's very little doubt that The Church of the Antique Rite was meeting in the sub-basement of Quentin Blackburn's sanatorium. It's a nasty little cult, and nasty little cults leave psychic residue. I wouldn't be any more comfortable leaving that lying there than I would be leaving around an unexploded bomb. And neither should you be."

  Sinah glanced from face to face. Rowan still looked indignant, but subsided when Dylan did not protest. Dylan looked thoughtful.

  "Probably the best thing," Ninian said soberly. "We never did get any documented history on the sanatorium itself for the database—not even a ghost."

  "Oh, pooh, Nin, where's your sense of adventure?" Rowan teased. "I thmk we should have turned it inside out ourselves. If you don't bet, you can't win."

  Ninian just snorted. Truth envied Rowan her lighthearted sense of adventure—whatever paranormal events Rowan Moorcock had been witness to in her life, they had not dimmed her inexhaustible appetite to experience more. Perhaps she simply didn't know how high the stakes could get.

  "Pardon me," a new voice said. "Is one of you folks a Doctor Palmer, from Taha—Tagga—well, from some university in New York?" the man finished with a grin.

  It was one of the sheriff's deputies.

  "Taghkanic, actually," Dylan said, getting to his feet. "It pronounces easier than it looks. I'm Dylan Palmer, this is Rowan Moorcock, Ninian Blake, Truth Jourdemayne, Sinah Dellon. What can I do for you, officer?"

  "I'm Sergeant Wachman of the Lyonesse County S.D. Caleb over to the general store said you folks were . . . hunting ghosts?"

  Sergeant Wachman's accent was broad and flat, with vowels that had changed little in the last four hundred years. He was a tall man with the fair coloring so common in these hills. The broad brim of his navy-felt sheriff's hat cast
his eyes into shadow, but Truth could feel him watching Sinah.

  "Well, Morton's Fork is supposed to host the largest number of paranormal occurrences in the local area," Dylan said. "We're parapsychologists from the Margaret Beresford Bidney Memorial Psychic Science Research Laboratory, which is affiliated with Taghkanic College in New York. We've been here for almost three weeks now. I met Luned Starking a couple of times when I was in the store. Do you think you'll find her?" Dylan asked.

  "Well, it's going to take divine intervention, after the rain we had the other day," Sergeant Wachman said. His eyes were still on Sinah. "You said Psychic Science?" he added. "You mean, tarot cards and things like that? Like they have on the television?"

  "More or less. Sergeant. Would you like a cup of coffee? It's fresh." Dylan's easy smile didn't waver, but Truth could sense the tension in him, left over from their own fight, that might easily spill over into this new outlet. And like it or not, Lyonesse County certainly qualified as the backwoods, and for many people, there was little distinction to be drawn between "psychic" and "Satanist."

  "I wouldn't turn it down," Wachman said. He scratched his head, pushing his hat to the back of his head. His skin was fair, red, and freckled, giving him the bland, stolid, bovine look.

  "My turn," Ninian said. He got up and headed for the camper. At Dylan's gestured invitation. Sergeant Wachman took Ninian's seat.

  "Dellon ..." he said. "You any kin to old Miss Rahab Dellon who used to live up in the hills here with her daughter?"

  Sinah flashed a look of mingled panic and shock at Truth. "I'm her granddaughter," Sinah said. "At least, that's what my birth certificate said."

  "Why, sure you are." Wachman's face held nothing but an expression of pleasure. "My daddy used to talk about you; you're the little foundling baby he drove on down to the hospital in Elkins about thirty year gone this month." Abruptly realizing what he'd said, he stopped, flushing pinkly. "I mean to say—I'm sorry, ma'am, I didn't mean to go telling your age out of turn."

  Sinah smiled. "I don't mind at all. Sergeant, especially since you're the first person who's looked pleased to see me since I got here."