The last echoes faded, and Sinah was alone.
Wycherly opened his eyes and sighed. "I had the strangest dream," he whispered to her, reaching for her with his free hand.
No. Not alone.
* * *
"Come on," Dylan said, holding out a hand.
"Dylan—look!" Truth said.
All three of them turned to where Truth was pointing.
The surface of the Wellspring was sinking, as though, with the passing of the power, the water, too, was vanishing into the living rock once more. In moments, all that was left was a small pool cradled in the bottom of the bare rock basin, and then that too was gone.
Truth shrugged wryly and hefted her tool bag onto her shoulder. Dylan turned back to Wycherly.
"Can you stand?"
"On my own two feet," Wycherly said, as Dylan and Sinah helped him upright. "And doesn't that sound damned significant?"
NINETEEN
'• ^^^
THE PEACE OF THE GRAVE
But an old age, serene and bright, And lovely as a Lapland night, Shall lead thee to thy grave. — WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
IT WAS AUGUST I7, AND TRUTH WAS BIDDING FAREWELL
to two of the three people she was now closer to than anyone else on earth. After all that had happened, there didn't seem to be a lot of reason for the party from the Bidney Institute to stay in Morton's Fork any longer. Rowan had already driven the rental car back to Elkins, and the other three would pick her up there in the camper before beginning the long drive back to New York.
Wycherly's hand was in bandages, though this time the cut was healing normally. Luned Starking was still in the hospital in Elkins, being treated for shock, exposure, and her long-term immersion in the icy waters of the spring. Wycherly had taken cheerful responsibility for the hospital bill, and according to the doctors, her arm had escaped permanent damage. Luned should recover from her ordeal without any ill effects.
"Are you two sure you're going to be all right?" Truth asked again.
"For the tenth time—yes," Sinah said, laughing. Wycherly tightened his good arm around her waist.
Truth doubted that either Wycherly or Sinah had the least desire for any more involvement with the Unseen World, but she didn't have to choose her friends on the basis of their magickal power.
She supposed she ought to phone and tell Michael the Gate was sealed. He could come back sometime and consecrate the site of Quentin's temple to his heart's content. At least, he could consecrate whatever he could find after the explosion. None of the four of them had seen any reason the site should remain at all, and they had needed to dispose of the dynamite, if not of quite so much of it as Wycherly had originally carted down there.
"You'll visit?" Truth asked. "You'll write? You both have to come to the wedding—oh, Wycherly; your sister will be there—" she said contritely.
"That's all right," Wycherly said grandly. "I suppose 1 ought to get a look at the fortune-hunting gigolo she married," he added banteringly.
"And I guess I'd better actually make those phone calls and see if I have a career left," Sinah said. "Or if I even want one. I may not even be any good any more," she said halfheartedly.
"You can find that out when the time comes," Dylan said. "And if there's anything I can do to help . . . ?"
"Do you really mean that?" Sinah said, only half joking. "It's going to be harder than I ever imagined—guessing what people mean instead of knowing. I'll make so many mistakes!"
"Everyone does," Truth said. For a moment her eyes were remote, but the shadow passed. "And you, Wycherly?"
"I'm going home to say goodbye," Wycherly said. "My father's dying. I suppose I owe him a last chance to tell me I'm worthless." He smiled— only a little bitterly—at Sinah. "Want to come with me? It's a great place to practice guessing the truth, and Mother will have a fit."
"Let her," Sinah said. "I have ancestors that fought on both sides in the Civil War and met the Mayflower, besides. And Morton's Fork isn't really home for me—it never was. Maybe we can find home together."
To which Truth, her arm around Dylan's waist, could only add "Amen."
A kiss is but a kiss now! and no wave Of a great flood that whirls me to the sea. But, as you will! we'll sit contentedly, And eat our pot of honey on the grave.
— GEORGE MEREDITH ''Modern Love''
BOSTON PUBLIC UIBRARY
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MICTION i
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(continuedfrom JrontJJap)
heroine of Bradley's novel Ghostlight, discovers that the source of the psychic storm is a renegade Gate—and one with a connection to Truth's own tangled past. But she cannot close the Gate alone, and the true Keeper is nowhere to be found.
In despair, Wycherly Musgrave has made a pact with evil. In fear, Sinah Dellon feels her soul slipping away under attack from a vengeful spirit. In dread,Truth Blackburn must make a great sacrifice to save all the people of Morton's Fork, and the man she loves, from the power of the Gate.
mmm.
Marion Zimmer Bradley is the bestselling author of The Mists ofAvalon and The Forest House. Her contemporary fantasies include Ghostlight, Witchhght, and the bestselling The Inheritor.
Born in Albany, New York, Bradley lives in Berkeley, California.
Jacket art by Mark Harrison Jacket design by Carol Russo
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Gravelight Page 41
